


Failing At Your Bucket List... Constantly

by hannanotmontana



Series: Bucket List series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is Mycrofts BFF, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Lestrade dances hula, M/M, Mycroft is totally failing at his bucket list, also a bamf, constantly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannanotmontana/pseuds/hannanotmontana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes has a bucket list, too. Unlike his brother, though, it appears he is incapable of handling it. But thank God there are friendly DIs who are too glad to help.<br/>Companion piece to "Cross Me Off Your Bucket List" - looks at Mycroft's/Lestrade's relationship that's woven around Sherlock's and John's story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do Not Become Attached

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> Enjoy this take on what happened to Mycroft and Lestrade while Sherlock was busy not-dying, coming back from the dead and falling for John Watson.  
> The story probably makes sense on it's own, but for better understanding you should probably check out "Cross Me Off Your Bucket List" before you read this :)

 

 

* * *

****“Now where's your picket fence, love? And where's that shiny car?”** **

****(Gives You Hell – The All-American Rejects)** **

* * *

**2005  
**

Despite his great fondness for dramatic behaviour, Mycroft Holmes cringes inwardly as his (high as a kite, stinking, half-naked) brother describes – in great detail – how he will ‘fuck shit up’ if he wouldn’t be released immediately.

There are a few interesting things to note. Firstly, Sherlock seems to be wearing only one shoe. Secondly, it is one of the dark highs – not Sherlock’s deductive skills heightened by the rush of cocaine, but a primal, feral aggression that makes him lash out to anyone who dares to come near him, and that makes him fall back to crude language.

However, neither of these things are quite as interesting as the third thing Mycroft notices. It is less of a thing and more of a person, actually. The person currently incarcerating Sherlock and target of the verbal abuse.

Ah, a punch planted into a jaded face. Add physical abuse.

The man takes it without a comment and simply pushes Sherlock’s head down and into the car before closing the door and locking it. _(Private car, second-hand, cared for but well used, will probably fail to start within the next three days – damage will be irreparable.)_

“If you throw up on the backseat, I’ll wipe it up with your t-shirt,” the man calls through the window and then leans back against the locked door (behind which Sherlock is snarling and making faces like a caged animal) to light a cigarette. He is perfectly calm.

Mycroft decides to intervene before Sherlock starts licking the glass.

Seconds later, his car pulls up next to the smoking man and he gets out, carefully making sure his face is not showing any of his anger towards his brother. Or the interest his opponent wakes in him.

“Good evening,” he greets and the man looks up warily.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“I must thank you for your patience with Sherlock Holmes, but you will be glad to hear that he is to come with me now. He will cause you no more tro-“

“Wait what?” The man interrupts and although his face is hard, his clothes are rumpled and his hair (silver running through the dark spikes already, at that young age?) is sticking up on one side and sticks to his head on the other, his eyes are alert and now narrowed down. “Oh bloody hell, you’re him, aren’t you?”

Sherlock, in the car, has become eerily quiet and Mycroft simply knows it’s because he’s treasuring the moment of Mycroft being taken aback because a smoking, grey-haired-although-two-years-younger washed-down Detective-Inspector-in-training interrupted him mid-sentence and is now glaring at him.

He decides to go for a diplomatically arched eyebrow and a questioning “Excuse me?”

“You’re the guy Archie from the front desk at the drunk tanks complained about! Said you brought a whole special ops team and basically dragged that one-“ he taps the glass of his car window like a keeper at the zoo and Sherlock jerks back, glaring at them from bloodshot eyes, “-out by his collar.”

“Well, Archie wasn’t co-operating,” Mycroft replies casually. He doesn’t add the ‘Are you?’ out loud, but the other man knows it’s implied and answers to it, cocking his head the slightest bit.  
  
“Depends – do you have a special ops team waiting around the corner?”

“You wouldn’t know if I had.”

“Probably not, but if someone starts shooting my tyres while Sherlock and I leave, I’ll know whom I have to send the bill.”

Mycroft tries very hard not to be impressed by the tired DI-in-training’s attitude and instead almost sneers. “You really don’t.”  
  
“Oh, I’ll tell him,” Sherlock pipes up from the backseat, looking a tad more alert than before and more amused than angry and high now.

His arrester steps on the remains of his cigarette before opening the front door of his car and nodding to Mycroft. “You can pick him up tomorrow morning at 10 at my office. The name’s Lestrade… although you probably knew that already.” Muffled protests from the backseat are ignored, when Mycroft leans forward the slightest bit and stares at the younger man.

“You’re making a big mistake.”

“You should meet my wife,” he replies, but without heat. Then he grabs the door and closes it with a last, clipped “Good night.”

Mycroft watches them drive away and calls off the special ops team waiting at the corner.

And that was how Mycroft Holmes met Gregory Lestrade for the first time.

X

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” Lestrade says, his tired eyes regaining a spark of interest as Mycroft silently steps into his office and closes the door before giving him an once-over.

“I could say the same thing about you.”

“Huh?”

Mycroft inwardly snarls at the completely unsatisfactory attempt at forming a question, but remains cool on the outside.

“Your car.”

The tired expression is wiped from Lestrade’s face within seconds, and it now shows a mix of distrust and annoyance. “How do you know my car broke down?” On second thought, he adds: “I’d suspect you have something to do with it but somehow I think you wouldn’t be able to open the bonnet if there wasn’t a button for it on the keys. No offence.”

How Mycroft is supposed to be not offended by that is beyond his imagination, but once again, Lestrade’s cheek has rendered him speechless. (Which, with the average Holmes brother, only lasts about a second, but it’s disturbing nonetheless.)

“I haven’t laid a finger on your car,” he finally replies vaguely. But my minions might have, he adds in his mind. And once again, it’s clear enough for Lestrade to read. _Don’t mess with me._

Lestrade makes a sound close enough to a defeated grunt and Mycroft already preens, keen to get on with this farce so he can take his brother home and-

“Right, so… I’d like to see some ID first, then you can tell me what you have to do with Sherlock and _then_ , maybe, I’ll take you to him.”

Now, Mycroft is someone not easily worked up. Not _ever_ worked up, really, by peasants. Sherlock manages on a fairly regular basis, but that’s it. But now- now he’s really worked up, annoyed at a man who sits in his small office and likes to think he has even the slightest bit of authority over him. _Authority over Mycroft Holmes._ It slips out before he can even think about it. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

And Lestrade has the nerve to sigh tiredly and says: “I don’t actually know. Hence, the me-asking-for-your-ID part.”

He shouldn’t have to do this. He _doesn’t_ have to do this. He can have Lestrade removed from his position and thrown into jail within three minutes.

But… Sherlock seems to know Lestrade. Seems to reach out for him. (Mycroft has read the files – whenever Sherlock is caught by the police, it’s Lestrade. Three times now.) And Lestrade had enough back to stand up to him. Lestrade made him lose control.

If he didn’t know better, Mycroft would say he was… puzzled. By Gregory Lestrade.  
  
And true, Sherlock _likes_ puzzles, but Mycroft is better at them.

So he slides an ID badge over the cluttered table and watches in satisfaction how Lestrade’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets. His reaction is not exactly what Mycroft expected, though. “ _Holmes_? Your last name is Holmes? – there’s two of you?!”

 _Oh dear Lord, give me strength._ “Astounding observation. Now if you would be so kind as to-“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Lestrade’s phone ‘bing’s and the man immediately snatches it up, completely ignoring Mycroft.

Rude. Cheeky. Infuriating. Just three of 34 possible adjectives that come to Mycroft’s mind.

When Lestrade looks up, he grins. Unsettling. “Actually, now there’s only one of you – in the building, at last. Sherlock’s made a runner.”

Mycroft, always suffering, simply sighs. “Of course he has.”

X

The next meeting with Lestrade is not any less infuriating, but this time, Mycroft is surprised.

It’s not him who seeks out the DI – or ex DI by now – but rather _he_ is being ambushed in his (nice, quiet) office at the Diogenes Club. His protected office. His secure office.

However, Lestrade (and Sherlock, what in the name of God is doing he here?!) stride in, singing loudly. _Singing._ Sherlock. And Lestrade. Something ridiculous about mowing meadows.

Mycroft debates to push the security button under his desk now and watch in satisfaction how both men are transported out, wriggling about in the grip of Igor, who looks exactly like his name suggests. Well, he’s not employed for his good looks or IQ.

But his curiosity gets the better of him (not that he will anyone let know, of course).  
  
“Shouldn’t you be applying for a job, Mr. Lestrade?” Mycroft asks calmly. “With your wife expecting a child and-“ he stops, silently relishing the look on Lestrade’s face – it’s as he’s been whipped with a riding crop – before continuing with fake sorrow in his voice: “Oh you didn’t know?”

“Don’t listen to him, Lestrade, she’s just getting fat,” Sherlock interjects before the newly unemployed man can punch Mycroft and be shot by a sniper or something equally messy. He completely misses the appalled look Lestrade is directing at him now in favour of glaring at his older brother.

“You give Lestrade his job back right now or I will poison the next diet pill you take.”  
  
“Right,” Mycroft says and decides that now, after all, it is time for Igor.

The gigantic man turns up seconds later and immediately grabs hold of Sherlock, who might be quicker and smarter than him, but, after all, still is a junkie recovering from his last high and the accompanying withdrawal symptoms.

Mycroft then addresses his… henchman with a handful of carefully picked words. “Pray tell, how did those two get in here?”

“I haven’t seen this one,” he sort of shakes Sherlock in his arms a bit, and the look on his younger brother’s face is something Mycroft will treasure for the rest of his life. “The old one-“ Lestrade gives him a disbelieving side-glance and Mycroft can almost read the protest forming on his lips, “-showed me his badge. It was real.”

 _Authentic,_ Mycroft wants to correct, but leaves it be. “Take my brother outside, please, and make sure he stays there. I’ll take care of the rest.”

And Igor dutifully obeys.

“Didn’t know they let you keep gorillas as henchmen,” Lestrade notes with a look after the retreating bouncer-of-sorts.

“And I didn’t know they let fired DI’s keep their batches.”

Mycroft counts on any reaction – from anger, to screaming, to annoyance – but what he doesn’t count on is an impish grin. “Oh, they don’t. Had to hand everything in. I nicked this one-“ he waves around an – authentic, real – DI badge with his face on it, “-from Sherlock. He keeps hoarding mine. Has a box full under his bed.”

This is the moment Mycroft Holmes realizes that maybe he has made a mistake. Getting Lestrade fired might have been the wrong decision. Emphasis on ‘might’.

After twenty minutes of talk, he realizes that Gregory Lestrade is most likely the best thing that has happened to Sherlock. And so, grudgingly (because Lestrade is rude, has his own mind, refuses to be manipulated AND to spy on Sherlock for money), thirty minutes later, Gregory Lestrade is a DI again, and not just in training, but full on.

(Of course Lestrade protests, thinking it’s Mycroft’s doing, when all he actually did was quicken the proceedings of a promotion already in progress – before the firing business which Mycroft only regrets _a bit_ – but then there’s a murder and Lestrade’s busy keeping Sherlock’s hands out of the intestines of the unfortunate woman and forgets about complaining.)

X

**1986**

When Mycroft Holmes is sixteen years old, he succumbs to his body’s needs. Once. For a short period of time. Exactly 3.7 seconds. (Which will forever stay the most awful 3.7 seconds of his life).

In a mixture of what he will later describe as hormones, mood and quite possibly a minor stroke, he kisses his Russian tutor, Tatjana.

To be honest, neither of them is quite pleased with the result and thus ends the tutoring lesson abruptly without ever being taken up again.

Tatjana thinks she’s not paid enough to endure a kiss from a skinny ginger genius who looks down his nose on anyone who doesn’t match his intellect – so, basically everyone – and talks of his younger brother as if he’s the best thing that has happened to the planet when clearly even an atomic war would be nicer than Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft thinks that other people must even be stupider than he thought if they waste their time with kissing, and that if he never has to kiss a woman again, it would still be too soon. (Interestingly enough, his mind never crosses out men, which will only occur to him much later, when a grey-haired, inebriated man kisses him in the rain – because them coming from completely different worlds is not enough of a romantic cliché already.) Also, he masters Russian within another week by studying it for himself.

X

That night, a quiet one in 1986, with stars littering the sky over Holmes Manor and his nine-year-old baby brother sound asleep on his bed (because beds in general are boring, but Mycroft’s bed has the advantage of, well, not being Sherlock’s own and therefore a miniscule bit less boring that his own), Mycroft sets to work on something that will probably (most likely) bring his downfall, should Sherlock ever discover it.

And hence, the very first words on the short list are the following:

_1\. Never let Sherlock find this._

So far so good.

A quite enormous part of Mycroft’s brain scoffs at the idea of making this… list, but he has always liked having things in a print edition in front of him. Something about words on paper, ordered, easily accessible and browseable always has appealed to Mycroft.

Which is why he continues this after a glance back at his sleeping brother. (Their father has been dead for three years now, but Sherlock still flinches in his sleep when he hears a sudden sound. Mycroft shifts on his chair carefully.)

The second part is very obvious for many reasons, two, so he quickly writes it down.

_2\. Do not become attached._

And then the words simply flow.

X

**2005**

It’s Christmas, the wife is cheating on him with a PE teacher (Sherlock told him so, and though he doesn’t want to believe it, he’s not stupid) and he’s known Mycroft Holmes for a little bit over five months.

Not that he actually knows Mycroft. No one does, except Sherlock, maybe, but he’s not inclined to talk about his brother and Greg Lestrade is most definitely not interested in him anyway.

He really isn’t.

Much.

Except this guy- okay, no, Greg can’t call Mycroft a ‘guy’. It sounds wrong. Try again.

Except this _man_ has already had him fired and put back on the force within a day. And broke his car. And made it incredibly easy to get a new (old) one. Somehow. (Greg can’t prove that yet but a car like the one he has now, in the condition it is in and at the risible low price he had to pay is not something that happens to anyone, ever.)

Also, they have had three telephone conversations and a handful of one-sided texts from Lestrade to Mycroft, informing him of the one thing or the other.

Despite what Sherlock thinks, Greg doesn’t spy on him. No, the texts usually consist of “ **Found a stash of coke under the sofa. Thought your people cleaned Sherlock’s place? – GL”** or **“Next time you kidnap your brother, don’t do it in front of the Yarders. Half of them bet on him turning up dead and the other half wants you to keep him. – GL”**

But back to the topic. Christmas. Namely, Christmas at the Yard, because he doesn’t want to spend it at home in forced happiness and peace with his cheating wife. And someone has to be available on Christmas because apparently not even during holiday season murderers seem to feel festive.

It’s early morning on the 25th of December, about three o’clock, and Lestrade and the rest of the grumpy homicide squad are arms deep in – admittedly festive red-splattered – parts of a body.

 **“Triple murder at Victoria Coach Station. Interested? – GL”** SENT 02.57 am

 **“Don’t tell me you’re asleep. At least reply? – GL”** SENT 03.10 am

 **“Are you waiting up for Father Christmas or did you shoot him? – GL”** SENT 03.27 am

Sherlock is not checking his phone, apparently, and Greg, with icy digits, taps out another message, huffing in annoyance while his breath fogs up the screen of his phone. It’s bloody cold.

 **“What do the less pathetic people do tonight? And are you one of them? – GL”** SENT 03.39 am

Usually, Greg pockets the device while it’s sending, but he hears Sally Donovan – new on the squad, and, because she’s the newbie, also on Christmas duty – call out for him. When he looks back down, his phone blinks with a green tick and the message that his text has been sent.

 _Oh._ To – Mycroft Holmes.

Bloody buggering fuck.

A quick check proves that all of his previous messages have been sent to the same number. Holmes M. and Holmes S. are just too close in his stupid phone. And his cold fingers apparently didn’t cooperate the way he had planned.

Oh well.

Not expecting a reply now, he sighs and goes over to Sally.

They solve the case without Sherlock’s help. And in just five hours. For once, his team seems eager to get back into the warmth so they work quick and precise, which helps a lot. (Also, the murderer sort of turns himself in.)

There are no signs that Mycroft has read the texts – but then again, he never replies, dislikes texting, so that’s nothing new – but two days later, on another night shift, there’s a small basket full of Christmas cookies in the front room of the homicide team’s office.

A basket with a note attached to the handle. It reads “Nothing pathetic about doing your duty.”

It’s not signed, but Lestrade has a feeling he knows whom it’s from.

 **“Thanks for the cookies – GL”** SENT 01.15 am TO: HOLMES M.

X

**2009**

Within four years, Sherlock relapses seven times.

Within four years, Lestrade helps Sherlock move three times, and packs up boxes a fourth time when the genius is kicked out of Montague Street. (Secretly, Lestrade is glad about that because it’s a less than ideal area for ex-junkie-Sherlock to live in.)

Within four years, Mycroft never replies to a single text message Lestrade sends him.

Within four years, Lestrade and his wife grow apart even more.

Within four years, Mycroft finds a PA that can keep up with him, saves his life five times, and, although she never says anything to him on a private, non-business basis, he comes to actually, genuinely like her.

And, on Christmas Eve 2009, five weeks before the day that will change his little brother’s life forever, Mycroft finds himself staring down at a piece of paper he has long forgotten about.

His phone vibrates.

**“Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes. I hope it’s a non-pathetic one. – GL”**

The small smile that appears on Mycroft’s face at that text catches himself off guard quite strongly. DI Lestrade has sent messages like that every Christmas, and lots of other messages in between, and Mycroft has never replied to a single one. After all, he dislikes texting.

With a bored flick of the finger on his laptop, the CCTV footage of the Yard – specifically, Lestrade’s office – opens in a new tab, and Mycroft tells himself he simply wants to check if Lestrade is wasting time texting him if there is a murderer on the loose and he should rather be working. Alas, Lestrade is slouching in his chair, clearly bored out of his mind, fiddling with his phone.

Now, Mycroft is, by nature, not a malicious person. But if he would descend to admit it, he would say he himself was… bored. (Just a bit. Because while crimes don’t stop on holidays, most offices, governments and royal families have a quiet night in.) And that is why he does what he does next.

His fingers fly over the keyboard on his phone and then he watches with a sly grin how Lestrade jumps in his chair and almost drops his phone.

**“Merry Christmas. Again, there is nothing pathetic about doing your duty. – MH”**

The grin spreading on Lestrade’s face throws Mycroft a bit out of balance, and he leans back when the DI types something new.

**“If I whine loud enough, though, do I get cookies again? – GL”**

And Mycroft smiles and almost types a reply when his eyes fall on the paper on his desk again and the smile is quickly replaced by indifference.

The second point, scribbled in his own neat handwriting, is almost something like an accusation. With fear, Mycroft Holmes realizes that he has failed.

He has become attached to DI Gregory Lestrade. And he didn’t even notice.


	2. Don't Be Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft doesn't want to get into Anthea's pants and his umbrella is totally magic. No pun intended.

* * *

**“And moments like this will bring you down.**  
 **Moments like this will bring you round.**  
 **Moments like this will make you strong.”**

**(Moments Like This - Reamonn)**

* * *

**2010**

“Sir, please do act more like you want to get into my pants,” Anthea hisses under her breath, her fake smile never leaving her face. Her arm, which is loosely woven around Mycroft’s, tightens for a moment.

“You’re wearing Kevlar reinforced undergarments which are bulletproof and can’t be cut without diamond blades – getting ‘into your pants’ is virtually impossible, even if I wanted to,” he murmurs back drily.

It’s not just special underwear, though. They _both_ look the part – Anthea in a dress that doesn’t seem to be made of enough fabric to actually cover her, and Mycroft in one of his suits, a dark blue one bringing out an auburn touch to his hair and his blue eyes are brighter than usual. Powerful. Beautiful. Perfect for this.

“Well, no one is going to believe this sham of you ‘showing of your trophy sugar babe’ if you look like you’re afraid that my vagina might bite your fingers off if you rest them on my hip,” Mycroft’s PA replies nonchalantly – usually, she wouldn’t even talk like that, knows her boundaries and cares a lot about professionalism, but she knows how much this operations means to Mycroft and his own awkwardness is getting in the way of results.

He might be mighty, powerful and controlling in every aspect of his life but she has noticed on the handful of times he was supposed to look… ahem, engaged with a woman that he looked like he actually feared for his virtue (and probably world peace). Which is exactly why she agreed to play his trophy sugar babe slash girlfriend slash escort service for the evening. That and because there’s the possibility that she needs to get his arse out of trouble anyway and the closer she is to him, the easier it will be.

When he still doesn’t react, she practically pours herself over him, slipping one hand beneath his suit jacket so it rests hidden, but still on top of his waistcoat just below his rips. His hand graces her bum and she swears she can hear a muttered apology before she can pinch him.

Because right then, one of the mightiest (smarmiest, most disgusting) man in the room appears in front of them, makes no secret of checking out her rather low neckline and long legs before clapping Mycroft on the should jovially.

Anthea feels her boss’ abdomen tighten in disgust, but his face remains perfectly still, charming and with just the same touch of smarminess the other man shows.

One of the men in this room is selling state secrets, and Mycroft will find out who it is.

However, apparently it’s too early in the evening for any of them to be in a talkative mood – at least about stuff other than yachts, women and estates they own – so, after one and a half hours of being leered at (Anthea) and forced into conversation he abhors  (Mycroft) they excuse themselves to a small room a bit off the main area of the exclusive club – not less than three men whistle and catcall – and, as soon as the door is locked behind them and Anthea has switched on a device to disable possible cameras and bugs (she has hidden it in a bracelet around her arm), Mycroft allows himself to slump down a bit.

He doesn’t sit down – although this is a high class club, the purpose of the room is clear and he rather not sit in, well, anything that has been inside another man before – but Anthea is not as concerned and sighs in relief. Her heels are killing her a bit and she secretly hopes for a bit of a brawl just so she can justify punching someone.

“Your phone vibrated twenty minutes ago,” she says and hands it to Mycroft. She has hidden it on her body (the men had been searched upon entering the club) and Mycroft tries not to think about where his phone has been when he touches its body-warm surface.

“Michaels is our man,” he tells his PA without looking at his phone, deeply in thoughts. “His companion is a well-known spy. She might have redone her face and body quite a bit, but I still recognized her. Birthmark behind her ear.”

“She should’ve worn her hair down,” Anthea agrees, playing with a strand of her own brown waves. Mycroft, of course, knows she has three moles behind her right ear and he can identify her by the hairline of her neck if she does her hair up.

Mycroft nods absently and flips open his phone, intent on sending out the command to his troops to be ready and wait for his word to intervene. However, when he sees whom the text mentioned prior is from, he (definitely doesn’t) takes a double take and taps on it.

**“Call me when you have time, please. – GL”**

Odd. Lestrade manages to make it sound important and not urgent _at the same time._

“Sir?” Anthea asks, and Mycroft realizes he has stared at his phone for almost 20 seconds, which is longer than he has ever taken to read and contemplate… anything, really.

“How long have we been in here?”

“Three minutes and 28 seconds,” Anthea supplies swiftly.

“How long do they expect our intercourse to take?”

You have to give Anthea credit for not even thinking of smirking. “It’s a quickie,” she says, completely serious, “so we have about eight minutes more, if we make you look a bit rumpled before exiting again.”

That decides it for him, really, and after sending out the text to the team waiting outside, he taps the by-now familiar number on his phone. Lestrade answers after the third ring.

“Lestrade.”

“Hello, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greets calmly, and Anthea definitely doesn’t look a bit smug. Mycroft turns his back to her. This is ridiculous. They are not 14 year old premature girls on a slumber party. They are having (well, pretending to have) intercourse in a private night club with some of the richest people of the country and a super-spy about to receive plans that could quite possibly result in World War Three.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. Sorry if this is inconvenient,” Lestrade apologises.

“Your text sounded urgent.”

“Yes, well, there sort of was a problem with Sherlock, but it’s good now. Did you know he’s moving into Baker Street tomorrow, though?”

No. Mycroft did not. But he sure isn’t going to tell Lestrade that.

“If everything is well then, I must bid you goodbye.”

“Yeah right…” Lestrade sounds lost for a moment, but then he asks: “Sorry, but are you dancing or something?” Suddenly, Mycroft is aware of the bass thumping through the halls. “Because if you’re actually out, you might have to show your brother how to let loose a bit.” He sounds unbelieving and intrigued at the same time.

Damn this… attachment. It’s like he wants Lestrade to know things, wants to make him smile, wants to – oh dear Lord – be liked. Mycroft feels like he should actually answer. Bugger.

This has to _end._

“Working, I’m afraid.” There. That is an answer. (With sentiment attached. ‘I’m afraid.’ What is that even supposed to mean?!)

“So you ARE some sort of superspy,” Lestrade declares and it’s completely unsettling that Mycroft can see his grin in front of his eyes. It’s audible in his voice. (Which of course is a solid observation and has nothing to do with how interesting Lestrade’s face is.) Mycroft’s musings are interrupted, though, when the DI adds more soberly: “You’re being safe, right? That pretty ninja-PA of yours with you? Or at least a small SWAT squad?” The last bit is teasing again.

However, Mycroft narrows his eyes. Of course Lestrade knows Anthea – from his not-abductions-simply-asking-for-status-updates-on-Sherlock-which-happened-to-be-at-empty-warehouses.

_Pretty._

Hm. Mycroft supposes you could call Anthea pretty. But you could also call flowers pretty. Sherlock would call corpses pretty if the word were part of his vocabulary.

“I’m fine.”

“… Good.” It comes hesitantly, but it comes. They bide their goodbyes, and Mycroft turns back to Anthea.

“DI Lestrade thinks you are ‘pretty’.” Mycroft Holmes does _not_ make quotation marks with his fingers but he damn well could, because they’re obvious in his tone.

His PA doesn’t look up from her own phone – again, Mycroft wonders (and doesn’t really want to know) where that has been – and shows no sign of understanding. She says: “Yes,” though. And then, with the utmost professionalism, she adds: “Don’t be jealous, Sir.”

He fantasizes a moment about firing her (and then hiding under a rock and never coming out again) but that is very impractical. (All of it, really.)

Also, she suddenly looks up, just as Mycroft notices a couple of people passing their room, too, and instantly throws her body back on the seat and moans deeply. There is a short silence outside, before giggling starts and moves away from them.

Invaluable. That’s what Anthea is. (Although Mycroft really loads to admit that.)

Another door bangs.

“Michaels and his accomplice are in the room two doors down now,” Mycroft observes (wasn’t difficult, he recognized the pattern of steps and the sounds the Russian spy’s heels make and the heavier, slightly stumbling steps of Michaels; also, the giggle is pretty tell-tale).

“Your umbrella, Sir,” Anthea tells him and produces his favourite accessory out of seemingly nowhere. Without doubt, she has cared for it being planted in here before. When his fingers close around the handle, he can breathe more freely for the first time this evening, a bit like his arm is finally complete again.

Later, he will have to deal with this Lestrade-business. It’s unacceptable to have this sort of conversation while he is working. Or ever, really. He is Mycroft Holmes, for God’s sake. He isn’t _friendly_ with people.

(At least not with people like Lestrade. Except there are no people like Lestrade.)

But now, he takes a deep breath and focuses on the task beforehand. And when Mycroft focuses, there isn’t much (anything) that can get in between him and his set mind.

“Can you take on Miss Zwetkova until the team arrives? They won’t be here in time to catch her if they intervene now. It will take them too much time to make their way through the main area of the club.”

It’s rare that Mycroft asks something, but with the spy, the utmost certainty is necessary. For once, it’s Anthea’s decision. She nods, which is not disappointing for Mycroft at all. (That’s why he chose her.)

However, he knows what her okay means for him. Well then. This is the part he _really_ dreads.

If Mycroft makes a sour face for a second before giving the squad waiting outside his okay, Anthea doesn’t mention it. And if Anthea quickly texts an address to someone, she doesn’t really tell her boss.

X

Mycroft Holmes then quickly finds out that he is surprisingly good at tackling in doors, and that he – despite despising physical activity – is rather apt at dealing with a raging 200 pound bloke trying to knock him out.

He might not look it, but after a particularly memorable hostage situation – in which yes, he, Mycroft Holmes, had been held hostage for 47 hours (and has two scars telling the story of that) – he had decided that he would never be in a situation like this again.

His umbrella is not _magic_ – but it is the closest any human can probably get to it. The tip has a diamond inlay, which is not only good for cutting glass, but also for, well, cutting people. The handle can be twisted off to reveal a blade. And of course the whole thing is stable enough to knock an attacker out if necessary.

A bit of miscalculation on Mycroft’s side – who is still surprised he could tackle in a door, to be honest – causes him to miss Michaels and while Anthea goes after the Russian, he is left facing a rather aggravated Michaels.

Behind him, there are authoritative calls, mixed with yelps and higher pitched screams as the special ops team rounds up the club, but before him, a fist is racing towards his face and he awkwardly leans back. Bad idea, considering he loses his balance.

(Really, Sherlock has always been the more prone to physical one, while Mycroft had considered himself the brain accompanying Sherlock’s brawn. That is no good now…)

Michaels, too, realizes Mycroft is at a disadvantage and lunges after him, lands two punches on his jaw and grazes his nose.

Great. Bloodstains on the suit. _Oh._ Not the point.

Pain shoots through Mycroft’s brain, angry, red, convulsing, but he refuses to acknowledge it yet and with the desperation of the man-squished-by-another-man-willing-to-kill, he grabs the handle of his umbrella and after seconds of uncertainty when the handle won’t budge, when Michaels reaches out to deliver another punch, when a tiny part of Mycroft’s brain asks itself if he will die today – the handle of the umbrella does what it’s supposed to do and seconds later, Michaels collapses on top of Mycroft with a punctured lung and a small, knife dagger-like stick poking out between his rips.

In the progress of collapsing, he headbutts Mycroft, who lets out a surprised ‘oomph’ and the embarrassment for making such an undignified sound almost outweighs the pain. Only almost, though.

Unable to get up (not just because there’s a 200-pounds-bloke lying on top of him but also because he thinks that maybe staying in a horizontal position might be good for him right now – one Holmes vomiting on things is really enough), all Mycroft can do is listen to a cat-like hiss _not_ coming from Anthea, then a grunt _coming_ from Anthea, and then the sound of something breaking, followed by a grunt from the Russian. Then there’s silence.

For just a couple of seconds, though.

Because then, the team arrives, and someone collects Michaels from on top of Mycroft, and Anthea reaches down to help her boss sit up. She has a nasty gash on her cheek, matching Mycroft’s in an oddly symmetric way, but she’s fine otherwise.

Anastasjia Zwetkova is lying unconscious in the shards of the broken window.

“Is she still in the condition to talk?” he asks interestedly.

“As good as she can, according to circumstances,” Anthea notes. (Circumstances being having had her head smashed in by Mycroft’s PA.) “Don’t worry, Sir, we’ll make her.”

“Good.”

Then the paramedics on standby appear in the door and Mycroft grudgingly accepts their help (he, like his brother, hates the fuss; however, _unlike_ his brother he’s not a complete prat about them and just accepts his fate. Also, his face bloody hurts. He’d never voice it like that, of course.) When they’re done with him, they move towards Anthea, and Mycroft finally gets a little bit of peace, leaning against a wall with a glass of water.

Only then he decides that feeling a bit content and smug is allowed now, considering Michaels and Miss Zwetkova are under arrest and he has competently _not died_ today, when he hears a voice that makes him tense within an instant and the forming grin is wiped off his face.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Let me through, please.”

The British Government’s eyes instantly search out Anthea, who is miraculously busy with her phone yet again and doesn’t meet his gaze. Smart move.

And then Gregory Lestrade is standing right before him, head cocked, worry drawing deep lines on his face and he almost tuts, but apparently then decides to just whistle lowly when Mycroft meets his eyes.

“Wow, Mr. Holmes, you certainly took a few punches. What happened? Are you alright?”

_This is not your business. You have no right to be here. You should leave._

_Why are you so persistent? Why do you care – it’s not like I’ve done you any good? What are you even doing here? Is this caring? Because caring is not an advantage._

_Leave. Go and bother my younger brother._

Mycroft says none of that. He is exhausted, in pain, and he’d dare say even confused about the whole Lestrade situation. (Not that there is a situation!)

And because Mycroft has – plain spoken – about no fucks left to give, is bleeding and bruised (and maybe just a bit horrified), answers: “They were trying to get into Anthea’s pants.”

X

Turns out Lestrade had been a ten-minute jog away from the nightclub when he got Anthea’s text, and because Mycroft – in contrast to his brother – is well-mannered (and Anthea sort of elbows him into the ribs), he ends up giving Lestrade a lift home.

And, somehow, they end up in the car alone (except for the driver, obviously).

Mycroft is still pressing a pad against his cheek, where the skin broke from one of Michaels’ punches, and he feels bruises forming around his nose and cheekbones. He’ll look terrible tomorrow.

Lestrade seems to think the same, because after a couple of awkward (no, not awkward, silence is nice, silence is good, Mycroft tells himself) minutes, he lets out an unamused huff. “That’s going to give you quite a headache tomorrow. Put an icepack on that as soon as you get home.”

Of course. The DI is well-practiced with these sort of battle wounds. He would be, wouldn’t he?

Mycroft decides to nod. Which is a bad idea, because he can indeed feel the beginnings of a terrible headache coming, and gets a bit nauseous, clenching his jaw tightly.

Now there’s actual worry painted on Lestrade’s face. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says this time, not daring to repeat the quite disastrous attempt of nodding.

The DI watches him from narrowed eyes, before his face lights up. “Do you want me to tell you something that will make you feel better?”

Mycroft isn’t sure if he wants anything besides some solitude to finally work through everything (case-related, obviously; nothing to do with a certain DI whatsoever) that has happened today in his mind again, but Lestrade reminds him of an overexcited puppy. And he did like Sherlock’s dog, Redbeard, even though he’d never admit it out loud.

He gives Lestrade a look that the younger man correctly interprets as ‘Go on’ – and maybe his detective skills are not that bad, or maybe he’s just good at reading Holmes faces – but Mycroft is glad that he understands. (He can worry about a civilian being able to read him like that later.)

“Last time your brother looked liked that, he threw up in the lobby of the Yard.” Lestrade smirks.

“Did you wipe it up with his shirt?” Mycroft asks, barely able to prevent the smile that’s tugging on the corners of his mouth from showing, in reference to their first meeting five years ago.

Now Lestrade full-on grins. “He wasn’t wearing one.”

Mycroft sighs theatrically, but Lestrade senses it is not a heartfelt sigh at all. “We could form a Sherlock-sufferers-self-help group,” he jokes. (And this is probably the first time that someone has joked with Mycroft Holmes, but after the sort of night he’d had – playing couple with Anthea, tackling in a door, stabbing someone – Mycroft fails to be surprised any longer.)

“We’d be joined by half of London’s criminals,” he adds drily.

Lestrade barks out a laugh, and it’s a sight that makes him de-age by at least ten years. He’s 38, but usually looks like a man in his mid-forties with the strangely intriguing silver hair, the bags under his eyes from the late-night-shifts, exhaustion buried in his bones even when he’s off duty. When he laughs, he looks like a young man. (All of which Mycroft notices on a completely observational basis, of course.)

“We’d need to attend self-defence classes then, as well,” he suggests, before furrowing his eyebrows. “Although you seem to be able to stand your ground pretty well.”

Mycroft’s thoughts run back to the events of the night. “I don’t like being helpless.”

(Is this too much of a confession? Has he gone too far? He rather suspects he has – no one has to know that! – but Mycroft can’t bring himself to care.)

“I rather thought you politician types went for bodyguards instead of doing the dirty work yourself,” Lestrade admits. “But then, you are a Holmes.” He says it with a smile that makes it sound less of an insult than it probably is.

“I found myself in a situation once where I would’ve been glad to have been able to defend myself,” Mycroft confides, before he can stop himself. As soon as he realizes what he’s said, he clamps his mouth shut more firmly and decides that he – this – has gone too far, so he wipes his face clear. The mask of coldness and indifference comes to him like an old friend, a well-fitting glove, and it stops Lestrade from replying anything.

Instead, Mycroft watches how Lestrade watches him in confusion, mouth hanging open a bit from when he wanted to reply.

For a second (or two or three or a lot), their eyes meet, and although Lestrade’s don’t look warm or full of mirth and amusement, they don’t regard Mycroft with the look he expects – one of resentment, professionalism, or even disappointment. (Then again, Lestrade is not someone Mycroft usually thinks of as ‘professional’.) Instead, they look… reassuring.

The car stops abruptly.

“I believe we have arrived at your building,” Mycroft all but dismisses him, not wanting to hear what Lestrade might say, but the DI pretends not to hear the clear dismissal and, instead says: “If you ever need to talk about what happened with you then, or tonight, you shouldn’t hold back. Things like being taken hostage can haunt people.” He looks serious. Mycroft doesn’t respond, and when it becomes clear that he won’t, Lestrade gets out of the car.

Before the door closes, though, he leans back in and says: “Take care, Mr. Holmes.”

The door shuts before Mycroft can reply.

X

**1986**

Mycroft writes:

_3\. Don’t be helpless._

He remembers.

(“I’m sorry, father,” five-year-old Sherlock says, his lip trembling, while he stares at the broken glass at his feet. It doesn’t change anything, though, and usually cheerful bouncing curls fly around as the first slap hits the young boy’s cheek. All Mycroft can do is watch and curl his hands into fists. He is 12.)

X

**2010**

His face is a swollen, throbbing mess.

Sherlock has chosen someone to live with, someone to share his life with. A crippled ex-army doctor. Who refuses to be manipulated.

And DI Lestrade is still friendly, still texts, (on two occasions even just random messages – something about the weather, something about coffee), and Mycroft tells himself every day to take care of the situation. But he doesn’t. (He doesn’t even know what the situation is, really. It’s just that. _The situation.)_

Then, Lestrade sends another text, a day after the text about his bad coffee, and it reads:

**“I bet you’re a tea person. Sorry if my Neanderthal coffee ways disturbed you. – GL”**

Mycroft is helpless after all, because he smiles.


	3. Don't Focus On Trivial Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft really wants a steak.  
> Lestrade really wants a divorce.  
> Mycroft re-evaluates what he really wants. Maybe it's not a steak.

* * *

****“I don’t care, I love it”** **

****(I Don’t Care – Icona Pop)** **

* * *

**1986**

He adds more points. Things that seem important to him then.

_4\. Don’t focus on trivial things._

_5\. Freedom through power._

A quick thought back to the Russian-tutor-incident in the afternoon, followed by a shudder, results in the next bit.

_6\. Never meddle with women._

Then, things are more practical again.

_7\. Everyone is more stupid than you._

_8\. Do something selfless._

_9\. Protect Sherlock._

_10\. Spend more time with Sherlock._

X

**1987**

Mycroft leaves for university and the always strained relationship between the brothers breaks.

X

**1992**

Five years after Mycroft leaves, Sherlock disappears for two days after yet another fight with his mother and him, and when the older brother searches through Sherlock’s room for a clue as to where his baby brother has gone, he finds an unfinished bucket list.

Being 22, and the youngest official at the UK government, Mycroft has learnt a couple of important lessons in life so far (and completely forgotten about the list he made six years ago) but he has realized one thing – caring is not an advantage.

It would really be for the best if Sherlock learnt that, too.

So he adds a tenth point to Sherlock’s list.

When Sherlock comes back, he immediately sees what Mycroft has done and scrawls a couple of crude words beneath it, in the knowledge that Mycroft is going to find them. Can’t keep his long nose out of his business, after all.

Mycroft, obviously, does find the charming little note, and more to spite Sherlock than for any other reason, he adds an eleventh point.

(If he would care about psychology – at least applied to himself – he’d see that this might be a secret wish of his heart, but Mycroft has learnt the caring-lesson, and thus ignores everything that can be mistaken for care before it can gain ground. (But of course he cares for his brother, and worries constantly.))

X

**1993**

With 16, Sherlock becomes unbearable, and in attempt to help Mummy, Mycroft adds point 14 to Sherlock’s list. It doesn’t help.

X

**2002**

With 25, Sherlock is a drug addict, and Mycroft finds him high more often than not.

There is only one night in 32-year-old Mycroft Holmes’ life where he wonders if it’s his fault. That, if he had been there, Sherlock would’ve turned out differently.

After all, Mycroft knows.

He knows how Sherlock’s brain feels. His own brain feels like that, every day, multiplied by a hundred. Multiplied by a thousand. Sherlock appears as a genius to other people, but he’s nothing in comparison to Mycroft.

And yet, Mycroft is not the one with a blood-stream full of cocaine.

(At least it’s the good stuff.)

When he finds high-Sherlock’s additions to the old bucket list (is that thing really still with his younger brother after ten years?!), he understands. (He thinks he understands; is sure he understands.)

The most valuable lesson in his life, _caring is not an advantage_ , is what saved him.

It has to be.

But Sherlock can’t live his life like this.

Which is why Mycroft Holmes, in this one night where he questions his life choices, adds point 19 to Sherlock’s list. (His brother throws up on the carpet in the meantime.)

X

**March 2010**

There’s little Mycroft can do to convince himself he’s not failing at his list. (Especially since he spent the morning thinking about it instead of solving world hunger or something like that.) His list.

Bah. A list written by a teenager, for God’s sake. Admittedly, written by _him_ as a teenager, but still.

Out of ten points, he has actually failed at two already, which makes one fifth – that is a higher score than anything else he ever failed at (maybe besides gym class, but that was no problem as soon as he was old enough to threaten his PE teacher – which was when he was about... seven).

15 year old Mycroft had not had very good skin and the fact that he’d experienced a massive growth spurt before anyone else, leaving him as ‘the posh bean pole’, had not contributed to his plans of remaining in the background. Ginger teen as tall as a giraffe? Not exactly inconspicuous.

He’d told himself to ignore other people. (It’s not like they were worth even a first thought, after all.) But then, with 17, he’d realized that beautiful people had their wishes granted easier. So did feared people, of course, but with 17, all he had were spots and limbs that didn’t cooperate most of the time, which gained him neither respect, nor fear, nor admiration for beauty for that matter.

Now, he’s on a constant diet (because he can see what all the paper work whilst sitting around can do to other men in the job and he definitely is not going to end up looking like them), has grown into his body and most of all, the mention of his name alone can make nasty businesses less complicated.

A knock at the door interrupts him and when he gives an affirmative, Anthea walks in with a couple of folders in her hands. “DI Lestrade’s report on the Jeffrey Hope case, Sir.”

“Good. Is my brother mentioned?”

She turns to a certain page. “Barely. ‘Witness under shock, no statement acquired.’ And no mention of Doctor Watson at all.”

Mycroft keeps his face carefully clear, but to the trained eyes of his PA, the distaste there is just about visible. “Ah, him. What is he up to?”

Anthea quickly picks up another manila folder.

“He’s been out with a... Sarah Sawyer twice, works at a clinic now, his credit card is not working properly anymore after an incident at a Tesco’s and he has bought two tickets for a Chinese travelling circus. On Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ name.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I never knew my brother was fond of the circus.” He contemplates for a minute. “However, smuggler gangs do fascinate him.”

“Sir, with all respect...” Anthea has worked for him long enough so she can allow herself to look sceptical. “Don’t you think Doctor Watson might take Miss Sawyer to see the show?”

At that, Mycroft smiles his long-suffering smile. It’s frightening. “Now, knowing my brother – how likely is that going to happen?”

X

**“Do you always take this long for your reports? – MH”**

Greg reads the message with a frown. It is Friday night, his first free weekend in ages and apparently Mycroft Holmes is intent on reminding him of his work. Hell, knowing him, he probably is still working.

He remembers something Sherlock or John had mentioned once.

**“I thought you dislike texting. – GL”**

“Who was that? Work?” his wife, Lilly, calls from the kitchen. For someone who is having an affair, she is bloody cheeky. However, he is not the one being unfaithful. He can answer that question with a clear conscience.

“A... friend.”

She says nothing to that (not much to say, they both spoke about a lot of things already and there’s no point anymore, really) and he looks down when his phone vibrates with an incoming text.

**“You tend not to answer a call when you’re off duty. – MH”**

Of course. Mycroft Holmes knows that. Greg is in a good mood, though, and following an impulse he texts back again.

**“So I’m special enough to be texted? – GL”**

The telephone rings somewhere in the flat and Lilly answers it before calling for him once more: “Greg, it’s your niece!”

 _Our_ niece, he wants to say. Then he gets up from the sofa and takes the call.

He misses Annie and six-year-old Annie misses him since her parents – her dad and her mum, Greg’s sister Stella – moved to Hawaii half a year ago. They’re both marine biologists and have accepted a research assignment on the island.

“Uncle Greg!!” Annie shouts into the phone and he grins broadly. And when she tells him they’ll be back soonish, he grins even wider.

Half an hour later, it’s time for Annie’s Hula class and after he promises her she can teach him, they hang up. Out of habit, he checks his phone on his way back to the sitting room and finds a new text.

**“Immensely special. – MH”**

Greg has the distinct feeling he’s being teased.

X

**28 March 2010**

“Lestrade?”

“Detective Inspector,” a well-known voice greets him and although he has come to know it sounding warm on occasion, it’s lacking that quality at the moment. Mycroft continues without pre-amble. “Who is Detective Inspector Dimmock?”

Oh, shit. So that’s what this is about. Greg decides to test the waters. “I’m sure you have a file on him. 30 years old, not married, solid career up til now.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for,” Mycroft chides. “I want to know what you thought you were doing when you assigned Sherlock to him. Sherlock, who proceeded to be shot at with a giant crossbow by Chinese smugglers.”

That’s the closest Greg has ever experienced Mycroft to being angry but he, too, is not exactly calm anymore. It’s not his job after all to bloody babysit Sherlock Holmes! And besides.... “I understand John was the one being shot at while Sherlock merely intervened.”

Mycroft must be seething now (although he’s the only person Greg knows able to do that without actually sounding like it) because the icy “If you think-“ before Greg can interrupt him sends his stomach into a tight knot.

“If I think I deserve a day or two off, then I take them because I’m not your brother’s babysitter and DI Dimmock is a good man. I do have a private life and that’s none of Sherlock’s or your business!”

And then Greg hangs up before Mycroft can scoff or something worse.

Was it really too much to ask for one nice quiet evening after he spent the last two days with his (soon-to-be-ex) wife and two lawyers?

He groans and drops a pillow on his face, a perfect imitation of Sherlock.

X

Mycroft is not prone to hissy fits but right now he envies his brother for his ability to sulk unashamed and extensively. Breaking something would also be nice.

There is no one on this planet, not even Sherlock, who can be as infuriating as a certain Detective Inspector.

For a while, Mycroft dreams of various medieval punishing methods and even Anthea wisely stays a good distance away but just when he decides it’s not worth spending more of his valuable time or thoughts on the matter, his phone rings.

He glares at the caller ID and debates with himself for a moment if not answering would be too Sherlockian – meaning childish – but then he decides that there is absolutely no reason he can’t be professional and _please,_ if Lestrade wants to do this... this... terrorizing and fighting, he can, for all Mycroft cares – Mycroft Holmes is sophisticated, intelligent and serious and can deal with this like the grown-up British government he is. There. ‘ _Answer call.’_

“Yes.” No point in answering with his name. People who call this number know who he is.

“Mr. Holmes, it’s Greg. Look, I’m sorry I, uh, snapped at you. Getting divorced is surprisingly not as fun as you’d think... but anyway, well, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Mycroft does hear the words, but his brain is sort of hanging on the first couple of words. Greg? They’re not on a first-name-basis. Is this important? Yes of course. It’s a peace offering. Psychology, really. Offering a first name, sharing private stories – Mycroft doesn’t think Lestrade is trying to manipulate him consciously, but it’s still an unconscious attempt. Which is, of course, not working.

It’s _not._

(Except no one has ever apologised to Mycroft – at least without being threatened to do so before – and it’s strangely pleasing.)

“I understand. And I’m sorry for your trouble,” Mycroft finds himself saying. It’s the politician in him, knowing what to say, when to say it.

“And about Dimmock,” Lestrade – Greg – continues, “he’s a good bloke and I think Sherlock likes him. If only because he thinks he can ‘form him’ or whatever.” He chuckles.

Mycroft is astonished that Greg knows why Sherlock ‘likes’ DI Dimmock, but then again he probably should stop being surprised by Le- Greg. Gregory. (He knows that’s the whole of it, and likes it infinitely better than the short form.)

“I see.”

Gregory clears his throat. “So... we’re good?”

“Of course.” Of course they’re good – although Mycroft is not sure he’s ever ‘been good’ with someone before.

“Good.” The relief is audible in Gregory’s voice and Mycroft understands that the other man is actually pleased with that outcome. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Holmes.”

And because it’s the polite thing to do (and they’ve known each other for five years now and because of no other reason whatsoever) Mycroft says: “Mycroft, please.”

Gregory seems to be the sort of person to nod while talking on the phone, because while Mycroft can’t hear an affirmative, the man on the other end of the phone repeats seconds later: “Have a nice evening, Mycroft.”

(He didn’t know his name could sound like that. It’s a strange one, granted, but he was always fond of it. Now, coming from Gregory, it seems... more interesting. Stranger, but also somehow... nice. What a dreadful adjective. And yet completely adequate.)

“You too.”

When they end the call this time, Mycroft is not furious anymore and seconds later, Anthea appears at his side, dropping some files on this desk. She points at a certain paragraph.

“General Shang is dead?”

“Yes Sir, Found this morning. Headshot.”

He sighs. “Very well.”

“Sir – we think it’s him again.” Anthea looks uncomfortable. However, so does Mycroft, even though it doesn’t show quite as much. “Did he leave a note again?”

“No, he sent an email.” She shows him her phone.

HOW’S THE FAMILY?

It takes nano-seconds for Mycroft to set on decisions. “Upgrade security at the manor and Baker Street. And make a dinner reservation for tomorrow evening. Make sure Detective Inspector Lestrade is free after seven.”

“Yes Sir.”

X

“If only all abductions would end with dinner,” Greg says as he sits down opposite Mycroft at the restaurant table, looking more amused than angry. Why Doctor Watson can’t be like that, Mycroft wonders.

“The world would be a better place,” he then agrees.

“Absolutely. Shame it isn’t like that.”

Mycroft allows his amusement to show. “Do you get abducted often then?”

Greg grins openly. “There’s this one politician-type gangster who seems fond of abductions, yes.”

While Mycroft is still not sure what he is to make of being called a ‘politician-type gangster’, he is not at all sure why his brain decides that playing along to a ridiculous joke is a good idea. “Whoever is that then?”

“Don’t worry, he’s no competition – I’ll stay faithful to you,” Greg replies, laughing quietly and now Mycroft can’t hold back his own smile any longer.

They’re being completely ridiculous and he finds himself enjoying it.

The good mood lasts until the food arrives – Greg hungrily awaiting his steak, Mycroft trying not to scowl at his salad – before he addresses what he meant to talk about in the first place.

“I need you to stop the Yard from investigating the Black Lotus Tong any further.”

“Okay?” Greg contemplates this over a bite of steak. Oh Lord, it looks good. (The steak, of course. Not Gregory contemplating while chewing. Of course.) Finally, he swallows. “You know I can’t just go there and tell Dimmock to stop without a reason.”

Mycroft gives him credit for not asking why he’s not simply giving a order to stop the Yard investigating. He could, probably. But Gregory apparently realizes that Mycroft wants him to do this, that he has his reasons, and accepts that rather than asking dumb questions.

“Oh, but you have a reason,” Mycroft elaborates. “The matter has been taken into... let’s say more important hands.”

Gregory is not at all convinced. “But what about their leader – General something, was it?”

“General Shang has been taken care of.”

“By you?”

Mycroft ponders for a moment if he can answer that, before he shakes his head. “No. She was just a tool, and the operator decided she wasn’t useful anymore.”

Now Gregory looks seriously interested, his steak momentarily forgotten. “And who is that operator?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential. I just need you to collect anything relating this case that’s still with my brother and then... forget about it.”

For a minute or so, it looks like Gregory is going to protest but finally he sighs and agrees. Then he surprises Mycroft by asking something altogether different. “Are you a vegetarian or is that confidential information, too?”

Thank God Mycroft is nothing if not squirmy with words. “I simply watch what I eat.”

Greg smirks. “Is that posh for ‘I’m on a diet’?”

Mycroft’s infamous eyebrow raises even higher. “No, that is English for ‘I watch what I eat.’”

The DI puts up his hands in surrender. “Fine. You’re right. All I was saying is that you wouldn’t need a diet if you were on one.” He takes his attention back to his steak.

And although Mycroft doesn’t reply, he maybe sits up a bit straighter. Being complimented is rather nice, after all. Especially when it’s an honest compliment.

X

Mycroft is known to be many things.

Calculating. Extremely intelligent. Cunning. Cold. Focused. Polite. Intimidating.

He likes being all that, has worked hard to be where he is now. Not to mention that he knows that he is better at, well, almost everything, than everyone else.

Caring is not an advantage.

He had – as of now – had no use for a relationship. And it’s not like he need one if he wants the physical aspects of it. Rather similar to his brother, he doesn’t bother with it much. Or at all. But the point is: he could. And to put it in the most primitive way:

Caring might not be an advantage, but shagging someone can have its advantages.

Right now, though, he thinks less about shagging, and more about caring. Because he finds himself enjoying Gregory’s attention, companionship and the entertainment his silly texts provide – for no apparent reason other than conversational exchange and without any hidden agenda.

Mycroft contemplates this all early in the morning after his dinner with the detective, and then comes to the decision that, in celebration of his acquisition of something as trivial as a friendship, he can have toast with jam for breakfast.

Sod the diet.

(Which of course means he has failed at yet another point on his list. Strangely, he can’t be bothered to feel bad about it.)

 


	4. Freedom Through Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade does some Risky Business.  
> Also, trousers are boring.  
> Mycroft thinks so is kissing. Until it isn't.

* * *

****“Lord Almighty, I feel my temperature rising […] Won’t you help me, I feel like I’m slipping away”** **

****(Burning Love – Elvis)** **

* * *

**April 2010**

Moriarty chose April Fools’ Day with care, probably, but not even Sherlock feels like laughing when he thinks back to it. Oh, he’s thrilled at the prospect of Jim Moriarty, the spider in the web, but Mycroft reads his brother easily and there’s something underneath the thrill. A determination. Jim touched one of Sherlock’s things and Sherlock had never really been good with that. Not even – or especially not? – if the thing is a crippled ex-army-doctor he has only known for a quarter of a year.

Of course heads of the CCTV people roll as soon as Mycroft hears about the pool – basically when his brother and Dr. Watson dash home, Sherlock excited, his blogger worn out but sharing Sherlock’s adrenaline high.

Two junkies. Dr. Watson riding the high of excitement provided by Sherlock (even if the possibility is they end up blown apart by a Semtex coat) and Sherlock – ever the junkie – uses his new flat mate like he used cocaine before.

Mycroft usually doesn’t waste much time wondering about the what-ifs of life but the night after the pool, no one sleeps well.

The bugs in 221B show neither Sherlock nor John Watson, who both love adventures, going to bed that night. Haunted by the memories of the war – of people blowing apart in front of his eyes – John stays in the sitting room and Sherlock plays the violin until his neck is sore and his fingers tremble. Even then he stays and they find security in each other’s presence.

Detective Inspector Lestrade, too, lies awake that night. He falls asleep on the sofa twice, only to startle up again, surrounded by cartons full of his belongings - moving out soon – and texts Mycroft once, around half three in the morning.

**“Donovan keeps texting me that there are complaints about disturbance of the peace at night in Baker Street. Can’t bring myself to tell him to go to bed, though. – G”**

Mycroft knows he blames himself, thinks that he should’ve seen into Sherlock’s head if not into Moriarty’s – although he had never heard of the Irish man before and attempting to read Sherlock is a futile endeavour.

But Mycroft doesn’t reply, doesn’t provide relief for Gregory’s guilt-ridden conscience. He does his best to try and ignore the completely irrelevant thoughts of what if he had lost his little brother.

X

Time passes.

Moriarty stays hidden.

Sherlock falls into the Thames while chasing a suspect and Mycroft keeps a cut-out of the newspaper article with the half-a-page photograph in a drawer of his desk. It never fails to amuse him when there’s tedious things like world peace to discuss.

Gregory moves into a new flat and Mycroft tells himself it’s only for security when he has Anthea re-adjust the CCTV in front of the windows of the second floor. Conveniently covering a certain DI’s sitting room.

X

**May 2010**

It takes Greg half a second to make a decision and then a grin spreads on his face. Without wasting time, he hunts down his sun glasses, and then his trousers land in a heap on the floor of his bedroom and he grabs hold of his bottle of beer (seeing as he’s lacking whiskey and coke). The wonders of technology allow him to push a button on the remote and then-

Then DI Greg Lestrade has his very own Risky Business moment, sliding through his living room wearing nothing but socks, his dress shirt – with the collar turned up (ha, bloody Sherlock, try beat this!) – and a pair of sunglasses to the sound of _Old Time Rock’n’Roll._

His text alerts goes of 1:15 into the song and he picks it up while still jumping around to the music. Just because he can. He’s sort-of-single, has just solved a murder case without Sherlock and has the day tomorrow off. It’s a good life (for the first time since the pool.)

**Really? – M**

Oh, Greg can just imagine the arched eyebrow and he grins (and decides to be horrified later because he doesn’t even question the fact that Mycroft seems to have CCTV directed into his living room) before texting back.

**Really. – G**

He keeps jumping around and even improvises a guitar solo with a wooden spoon before he hears his phone again.

**Impressive. Remind me again of how old you are? –M**

**5 and something. – G**

Greg flops down on the sofa for a moment to catch his breath, while he waits for Mycroft to reply.

**5 and a lot of something. – M**

A half-hearted glare is directed in the general direction of the windows before Greg gets an idea and eyes his bookshelf.

**It’s called having fun. Do you know that? Fun? Wait… - G**

**[Image sent]**

The next song starts and because he has nothing better to do, he jams along to that one, too, until his phone vibrates against the cushions of the sofa.

**I knew the definition of fun before you sent me a picture of the Oxford Dictionary entry for the word, thank you very much. – M**

Seconds later, another text comes in.

**And I don’t have time for fun. – M**

That does take out the air of Greg a bit and he quickly slips on a pair of sweatpants and turns the music down before thinking about the last text. It’s unusual for Mycroft to whine, so Greg knows he’s just being completely serious. Mycroft Holmes is the British Government (and probably part Batman) – he really, actually doesn’t have time for fun. Or so he says.

 **Why have you stopped? It was adequately distracting from the treaties I’m reading through.** **Gruesome. I don’t believe people who are unable to spell the name of their own country should be in charge of** **setting up treaties. – M**

Greg smirks.

**Chatty today, are you?**

He almost sends it, but then thinks of something else and quickly adds:

 **Look, you dislike texting and I’m having way too much free time. We can meet up for food and you** **can complain about all the stuff I’m not supposed to know about. We can go out. We can have FUN. – G**

Seconds later, his phone rings.

“Or we behave like grownups and do the jobs we’re paid to do,” Mycroft suggests and it’s only years of training with two Holmeses that allow Lestrade to hear the faint amusement.

“You really do miss the whole point of this fun-business, do you?” Greg asks, sighing. “The world won’t end if the British Government has fun.” He has to physically restrain himself from adding a whiny ‘come ooooon’.

(And he really really has to re-evaluate his life because he’s willing to spend a night out with Mycroft bloody Holmes. He genuinely wants to do that. His 5-years-younger self would laugh him in the face.)

X

Although Mycroft was convinced earlier that this would be about as good as an idea as a root canal treatment and had to refrain himself from a petulant ‘Not a date’ when his PA (who really _really_ needs to be fired, except he likes- _tolerates_ her) wished him a good time on such a thing, he finds himself relaxing after half an hour at a quaint little bar that has the advantage of serving both, beer and wine, and is small enough so as not to be a complete security nightmare for Mycroft’s security guards.

Gregory is, unfortunately, wearing trousers again but he has changes his dress shirt for a plain, long-sleeved shirt in navy blue which looks rather nice on him. Mycroft, in comparison, is still horribly over-dressed in his usual three-piece suit, although his jacket is hanging over the back of the chair and he has the sleeves of his shirt rolled up.

(It’s the most causal anyone has ever seen Mycroft Holmes, but no one besides Gregory in the bar knows him anyway and the security people hidden in the area make sure no-one else who could recognize him comes close.)

Mycroft has realized even before he’d seen Gregory dancing though his flat without trousers that he’s physically attracted to the detective, but that doesn’t mean that he’s going to act on it – especially not now when he has found someone for easy companionship. That, in the long sight, has to be better than a shag.

(And Gregory has not shown any interest in that department anyway – after all, Mycroft can read him.)

Conversation is easy and ranges over a variety of topics (because unlike his brother, Mycroft has at least basic knowledge of popular culture and can only try to smile not too broadly at Gregory’s enthusiasm for classic rock music.)

He’s honestly surprised at the detective’s admission of reading Orwell’s _Animal Farm_ at the moment – it’s generally something students are forced to read and then hate forever – and both men find they have a lot more in common and to talk about than Sherlock.

Although, of course, conversation does come back to him eventually. Gregory sighs contently and leans back, stretching, so that his shirt rides up a bit and exposes a strip of soft skin. (It looks soft, at least. Mycroft pointedly does not look. For long.)

“This is really great. Haven’t been out in ages – I normally see John about once a week, basically whenever Sherlock becomes too much, but since the pool, your brother’s a bit overprotective. John complains at least twice a day.” He grins at a memory before he leans forward and tells Mycroft: “Two days ago Sherlock broke into their bathroom because John took too long, and John drenched him with the shower head. I would forward you the photo, but Sherlock threatened to poison my coffee.”

Mycroft smirks and that, in turn, makes Gregory lean back content.

“He’s always been a bit overprotective of his things.” Mycroft lets his gaze roam through the room before he catches Gregory’s eyes again. “I recall someone marching into my office with him.”

“I’m one of his things?!” He askes, but is clearly not offended. Much. “And I’m not sorry about that incident.”

“Me neither,” Mycroft replies nonchalantly.

They sip at their drinks for a moment until another question breaks their silence: “Was he like that as a kid, then?”

The question takes Mycroft back into another time, but he refuses to let the memories take over. He contemplates his answer for a moment. “He was a curious child. The experiments, the violin – all that was always a part of him. His over-protectiveness only began because of mistreatment by our father.”

Mycroft watches interestedly how his opponent’s face hardens but he silences all attempts of apologizing for asking that question as soon as they start to bubble out of the detective. He doesn’t care about his father anymore, and he’s certainly not troubled by talking about it. Maybe it’s even good if Gregory knows. (And if not… well, he is still Mycroft Holmes. Silencing anybody is not hard.)

“He didn’t-“ Gregory looks uncomfortable, and Mycroft hurries to put him out of his misery.

“No. He was violent, physically and verbally, but he never went further.”

Gregory still looks ready to shoot someone, but then repeats his question from the beginning: “So, how does Sherlock being overprotective come into that?”

“He had a dog once. Redbeard, he was called.”

“Oh no.”

“I fear it’s “Oh yes”. He had to be put down after out father ran over him with the car. Sherlock didn’t take it well.” He pauses before he admits: “Our father dying was a relief for everyone.”

For a while, neither man speaks; Mycroft wonders if telling that story was something he’d ever done if it weren’t for Gregory, but then the detective startles him with a question he didn’t expect.

“Are you alright, now, I mean?”

“Of course I am. To be honest, I saw it all as a lesson – I learned early that if you had power, you were free to do basically anything.”

Hence the fifth point on his list.

“Doesn’t sound like a very good lesson to me,” Gregory tells him, losing a bit of his seriousness although he is still far from in a light mood.

“It’s not so much about a good or bad lesson, than about a true or false lesson. I now do have a small amount of power-“ ah, there is the quirk in Gregory’s lips again, “but I’m not what people would call ‘free’. As we speak, there are three calls and two text messages on my phone that require my attention. You know that situation, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft is not complaining, never. He chose his job, it’s what he always wanted to do. This is just facts.

Gregory groans in sympathy, but it’s finally light-hearted again. “Tell me about it. Though… I do love my job, you know? It’s just poison to a social life or a relationship, I suppose.”

This proves to be an interesting topic. “How long were you married for, if I may ask?”

“You may,” Gregory teases. “For 18 years. We met shortly after school and sort of… hit it off. I think my grandma was pretty happy about Lilly after she found David sneaking out of my bedroom window one night.”

(No, why would it be.)

“You don’t seem too disappointed about your divorce,” Mycroft asks carefully instead of focusing on the (completely uninteresting and unimportant) jaunt into bisexuality.

“I am sad about it,” Gregory says, face thoughtful, “It’s just… it’s more like losing a friend rather than someone you once loved. We just… started to drift apart, I guess.”

Mycroft makes a non-committal sound – no, he doesn’t know how it is – but it seems to be good enough for Gregory.

“So…” Gregory then continues and smiles, eyes twinkling and face doing the 10-years-younger-thing again. “Favourite James Bond actor?”

“Roger Moore,” Mycroft says with a small smile and watches how Gregory gives him a pitying look that says: ‘you couldn’t be more wrong’.

X

Halfway on the ten-minute-walk back to Gregory’s, it starts to rain and Mycroft (whose brain had quite apparently short-circuited upon leaving the bar and made him walk with the detective) puts his umbrella to its intended use.

They walk close to each other, Mycroft’s right arm and Gregory’s left aligned and the rain provides a soft background noise while they walk in companionable silence.

Soon enough, they reach the couple of steps that lead up to the detective’s building’s door. Mycroft naturally walks up the stairs with him, considering that it’s positively pouring by now and it would be ridiculous to let Gregory get soaked to the bone when he’s almost home.

However, the room at the top of the stairs is not as big as you’d think, especially not for two men and an umbrella and they end up pressed against each other. Not uncomfortably so, but still – closer than strictly necessary.

Gregory licks his lips and his chocolate coloured eyes flicker up to meet Mycroft’s blue ones.

He is handsome, with his windswept silver hair, the stubble and the slightly tanned skin (something half of London’s population probably envies him for). Mycroft finds himself reacting to the sight in a not quite appropriate manner for friends.

And this is when he realizes what Gregory is about to do.

He is going to kiss him.

This is worrisome. Worrisome? Worry. No. Not worry. No one is worrying. Not Mycroft, at least.

He worries about his brother, his kingd- Britain, sometimes North Korea.

This is nothing to worry about.

Panic, on the other hand... yes, panic is a feeling appropriate to the situation.

Not because of the impending action itself, the hows and wheres and whats, but more because of what it entails. Emotions. Feelings. That sort of messy stuff Mycroft has absolutely no time for.

A kiss apparently seems like a good idea now – but tomorrow, Gregory will feel guilty or whatever people feel when they kiss someone while feeling lonely because of a divorce. Or because they are a bit tipsy.

It will be awkward between them, not because Mycroft makes it awkward, but because people- Gregory, not people – tend to overthink things. And gone will be the relaxation that comes from casual encounters like this Mycroft has come to appreciate.

So yes, he should move. Say something.

He doesn’t.

And, a fracture of a second later, is surprised when Gregory’s lips find his cheek.

He feels like saying ‘what?!’ and doesn’t.

Of course. Kisses on the cheek are a perfectly acceptable way of greeting or saying goodbye.

(Except – not in England, where the most intimate encounter entails avoiding each other’s eyes and muttering ‘sorry’ several times despite having nothing to be sorry for.)

Suddenly it’s over and Gregory displays a lopsided grin and says: “Tonight was fun.”

No mention of anything that has happened just now. (Or maybe he did mean just now? Or the whole evening. Oh, linguistic imprecision. Mycroft hates it.)

Mycroft feels compelled to smile, too, and gives in to the urge. (The safe urge.)

“I believe that is an accurate description.”

“We should do it again soon.” The detective grins even more gleeful. “I’ll text you.”

“You probably will,” Mycroft replies with a sigh that’s entirely not serious.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it!”

“I could live without the ones about coffee.”

“Tough luck,” is all Gregory replies to that and then peers over Mycroft’s shoulder and out in the rain to the curb, where a black town car has pulled up.

“Right on cue. Your PA _is_ magic, right?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Smooth, Mr. Holmes.” They smile at each other again (Mycroft has probably pulled several muscles by now.)

Silence. For a small eternity. They’re stalling.

“Well, get home safe. Don’t get abducted. There’s a strange car around...”

“Glad to hear the police care so much for the citizens.”

“I’m only doing my job,” Gregory says in a parody to every police movie ever. And finally, finally, with one last goodnight, they part.

X

**“Did you manage? – G”**

**“The six steps and across the sidewalk? Yes. – M”**

Greg grins into the semi-darkness of his bedroom, content with himself and the world.

The kiss has come as a surprise to him, too (although Mycroft doesn’t look bad at all and they get along well), but even more surprising was Mycroft’s reaction of staying-and-not-reacting. At least he didn’t run. Or stab him with the umbrella.

Which is interesting. And nice. So very nice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opinions about Animal Farm expressed in this chapter are not mine.  
> Personally, I love Orwell, and especially this book, and although we did have to read it in school and almost everybody hated it, I enjoyed it.


	5. Interlude 1: Annie and Mycroft Poppins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's niece is back in London.  
> There's Hula.  
> Mycroft is magic. Or at least his umbrella is.

* * *

**Aloha ʻoe, aloha ʻoe**

**E ke onaona noho i ka lipo**

**A fond embrace**

**A hoʻi aʻe au**

**Until we meet again**

**[Aloha 'oe - Liliʻuokalani]**

* * *

They have two other nights out like the one in May, and on both occasions, Gregory kisses him on the cheek.

The infuriation thing is that he never so much misses a beat doing so, while Mycroft’s brain overanalyses things. (As if he’s... common. Common people do this. Not Mycroft.)

He has a principle! No relationship, not now, not when he’s so busy with... life. His brother chooses not to enter a relationship or even partake in any of the physical activities out of fear for his precious mind. He doesn’t want a distraction from work.

Mycroft, however, has no need to fear for his mind like Sherlock does – he can easily handle both. It’s just that he chooses not to because of the complications that tend to come with it. And casual encounters are hard to organise, what with the person he could take home could happen to be a trained killer. (Unlikely, considering his people reading skills, but still a horror for security.)

So, by all means, Gregory would be perfect for a relationship – if Mycroft wanted one. Which he doesn’t.

The kissing is nice, though. (Mycroft’s brain helpfully provides an exact evaluation of just how much nicer it would be to-)

“... which is why Mr. Holmes has brought these files.”

He looks up, face clear of anything he thought about just now and gestures for Anthea to pass over some papers. The other four people in the room haven’t noticed a thing.

X

**“I’m not interested in a relationship. – M”**

**“I’m getting a divorce. – G”**

**“This was ‘Relationship Update of the Day’ with Mycroft and Greg. – G”**

Mycroft is probably pinching the bridge of his nose now, Greg knows it, but he’s feeling rather silly today (probably the effects that spending three hours in a locked office with Sherlock being extra childish have one a person) and he somehow knows (hopes) that Mycroft will understand that he took notice of that piece of information despite not voicing it.

There’s no reply after two hours, though, and slowly Greg starts worrying a bit and thinks about apologizing for not being serious about it, but then there’s a murder and he doesn’t really have the time. _(And this is how your last relationship went down the hill. Oh, and now you’re comparing you and Mycroft to you and your wife. Great.)_

When he comes home late that night, however, there’s the black town car waiting at his curb and for an irrational moment he thinks it’s Mycroft. When the PA, Anthea, steps out of the car the tentative joy blooming in Greg turns rapidly to suspicion – is Mycroft going to have him assassinated? For not being serious? For three kisses? Anthea could do it for all he knows. He fights the urge to reach for his gun and watches her approach.

Without even looking up from her phone she says: “Mr. Holmes smiled today.” And, after a few seconds she adds: “In a meeting with some very important people.”

Even in his tired state, Greg realizes this is about the texts. “You’re allowed phones in class?”

“He is,” she replies drily.

The ‘I’m not’ is implied and he feels a smirk tugging at the corners of this mouth. “Aww.”

For the first time in most likely history her eyes leave her screen and she almost glares at him. “Do not ‘aww’ me, Detective Inspector.”

He puts his hands up in surrender, but just when he wants to tell her that it’s late and he rather wants to be asleep within preferably the next five minutes, she says: “Don’t always listen to Mr. Holmes. He is a genius, yes, but sometimes he doesn’t know what he needs.”

“That’s what you’re for, though.”

She shakes her head lightly. “Not for this.”

“O-kay?” he has the feeling he knows what she’s saying but she simply leaves after that and he decides to think about that when he’s not half comatose.

X

They resume texting two days later, and it’s just like always.

**“Apparently the new capital of France is called ‘Parsi’. – M”**

**“Ah, yes, the famous city of loev. – G”**

**“Please, this is bad enough without you butchering words, too. – M”**

**“Aww. – G”**

**“Do not ‘aww’ me, Gregory. – M”**

(Greg laughs out loud and Sherlock and John, who sort out through cold case files at his desk, give him an odd look.)

So this is where Anthea gets it from.

X

**16 th June 2010**

They are an hour into practice when Greg collapses on the floor and wonders just how possibly he’s having a heart attack at the moment.

Annie, despite being only six years old, is more serious than a drill sergeant about this and if he doesn’t move his hands in the exact way she shows him, she makes him start all over again. It’s great fun though and he’s missed her more than he’d thought.

She and her family are back in London since Monday and they have lasted about three days before she sort of forced her mum to drop her off at his new place for the day for some niece-uncle-quality time.

When Annie carries a glass of water over for him, he takes it with one hand and uses the other to pull her into his lap. Being six, she still likes that and allows him to rest his chin on top of her head. (Sometimes, he misses having kids of his own – there never really was time to think of having them – but he loves Annie dearly and is content whenever he can have her for a day or two.)

“I like your new flat. There’s a lot of room for dancing,” she declares.

“I like it too, bug,” he tells her and she giggles at his nickname for her. (She protests against it sometimes, but likes that it’s their special thing.)

“There’s no room for Aunt Lilly, though,” his niece then states and looks at him from beneath her bangs that are always just a tiny bit too long and fall into her eyes.

“No, there’s not,” he agrees, “but she won’t come to live here anyway- hey, don’t be sad because of that!” he quickly adds when her face falls a bit. However, her answer surprises him.

“I’m not sad because of her. I’m sad because you are a bit lonely now. You need someone so you’re not!”

Before Greg can reply to that, the doorbell rings and Annie perks up excitedly: “Is that the pizza? Can I open the door?” And Greg can’t even point out that this cannot possibly be a pizza delivery, simply because they didn’t order any yet - Annie’s already at the door.

He gets up to follow her and hears her great someone a bit disappointed: “You don’t look like a pizza delivery man.”

What surprises him a lot more than the fact that it’s not the pizza delivery guy _they haven’t called_ is the voice of the man at the door. A voice he knows very well.

“And you’re not Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

She giggles before she roars – in a very Sherlockian way, if John is to be believed – “Uncle Greeeeeeg!” and looks at him expectantly when he appears behind her and faces no-one else than Mycroft Holmes in all his three-piece-suit glory. (Such a nice suit. Glorious display of long legs and- Greg berates himself for staring, but he can’t bring himself to feel too guilty.)

“Mycroft!”

The politician nods at him. “Gregory. I seem to be interrupting something,” he says with a barely hidden smirk and a glance down Greg’s body.

It’s then that Greg realizes he’s wearing bright red swimming trunks with white flowers (a gift from Annie and ‘perfect for Hula, Uncle Greg!’) and a white t-shirt that as seen better days. Days without holes and a couple of paint stains from renovating the flat.

“Hula lesson. Apparently any man over 40 is supposed to be able to dance Hula.”

“I see...” Mycroft still looks amused, but straightens his back. “I’ll talk to you another time then-“

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s probably important if you came all the way here,” Greg quickly says and remembering his manners, steps aside and gestures for Mycroft to come in.

He doesn’t look convinced and glances at his phone. “I was in the area, so it was no trouble. I don’t think this is suitable for the ears of young Miss Baker here.”

Annie’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets when Mycroft addresses her like that and then she turns to her uncle and stage-whispers: “I like him! Can he stay for lunch?”

( _He doesn’t always know what he needs,_ Anthea says in Greg’s head.)

Greg looks from Annie to Mycroft and says: “I don’t know. Can he?”

And when two people with Lestrade DNA pout at him, Mycroft really can’t say no.

“We’ll talk tonight,” Greg quietly tells him and the politician nods before Annie ushers him inside, even manages to take his suit jacket, and pushes him into a chair at the kitchen table. And because Greg can’t really make Mycroft Holmes eat greasy pizza, he puts a bit of effort into rustling something up in the small kitchen. He even manages a salad.

While he’s busy cooking, he hears Annie eagerly talking to Mycroft, who does an admirably great job at replying. Greg is a bit surprised at how good Mycroft is with a young kid, but it’s not the first time Mycroft has surprised him.

“Do you work for the police, too? Are you a detective? Can you find out things?” Annie just asks.

Mycroft smiles at her (and it’s amazing how his face looks really gentle rather than cold and intimidating when he does that). It’s the most genuine Greg has ever seen him smile. “I’m not a detective, no. I work for the government.”

When Annie’s face falls a bit, he quickly adds: “But I’m also capable to find out things about people sometimes.”

(Understatement of the century, of course. Also, Mycroft trying to please Annie? Greg smiles fondly. Mr. Detached-and-no-relationship wants Annie to like him. Aww.)

Instantly, the smile is back on Annie’s face and she looks excited. “Can you find out things about me?”

Mycroft nods once and then his blue eyes move over Greg’s niece quickly. In the light of the midday falling through the kitchen window, the eyes look a bit like crystals, brighter and clearer than they normally do.

“Your name is Annie Baker. You’re six years old but your birthday is soon, within the next four weeks most likely. Your mother is your Uncle Gregory’s sister and you spent some time abroad recently – Hawaii, where you stayed long enough to get to know a few customs, Hula and acquired some of the linguistic characteristics found in Hawai’i Creole.”

The last part confuses Annie and she looks at her uncle questioningly. “He means you sound a bit like the people from Hawaii do, bug,” he explains and finally, she smiles widely.

“He is magic!” she announces and Greg almost snorts, although it turns into a chuckle when he sees how Mycroft basks a bit in the compliment. He really is a sucker for them, just like his brother (God beware someone said that to him, though!)

“He’s not magic,” Greg tells her, able to follow most of Mycroft’s deductions. Name tag on Annie’s jacket in the hall, sun tan, Hula and accent, Greg only has one sister, - no idea about the birthday, though – but before Mycroft can intervene, he adds with a smirk: “His umbrella is, though.”

Within seconds, Annie’s eyes flick over to the object in question hanging from the back of one of the chairs. “So you’re like Mary Poppins?” she asks, face still full of admiration and wonder, and now Greg can’t hold back the laughter anymore.

X

Mycroft doesn’t know why he’s still at Gregory’s after they’d had lunch and the detective’s little niece has asked him hundreds of questions, half of which he can’t answer. (Is there really someone like 007? Of course there isn’t. (They don’t have numbers these days.))

He can barely remember the last time he’d had an easy, relaxing time like this, though, and both Gregory and Annie are refreshingly _nice._ (There’s the dreaded adjective again!)

If someone could see him now, sitting in a small flat in his waistcoat, currently helping Annie cheat in some sort of card game he didn’t know until five minutes ago – but when you have a higher IQ than the inhabitants of Baker Street combined, you tend to grasp the concept of a game aimed at six-year-olds quickly – they’d do a double take. But then again... Anthea has her orders and Mycroft secretly enjoys himself enough not to worry about Moriarty, the future of the United Kingdom or how Gregory looks in swimming trunks too much at the moment.

“Have you ever talked to the Queen, Mycroft?” Annie, whom he’d allowed to call him by his first name quickly, asks.

Gregory perks up, too. “Yes, have you?” The mirth in his eyes is obvious.

“Not today,” he says evasively and Annie giggles, but her uncle looks disbelieving. He knows that this answer can mean a lot more than what Annie thinks of as ‘no’. Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him and he smirks.

Then Mycroft and Annie beat him within three turns and the smirk vanishes. Annie leans over to Mycroft and whispers loud enough for her uncle to hear: “Uncle Greg is a sore loser. Oh, and he doesn’t like being told when he’s doing something wrong.”

Mycroft tries very hard not to be amused and Gregory sends a glare at his niece before he, too, leans over to Mycroft and confides: “Yes, apparently I ‘pick flowers’ the wrong way.”

Annie throws her hands up in the air dramatically and exclaims: “Because the way you do it, it looks like you’re ripping them out! You have to do it gently!” She punches him weakly into the shoulder for emphasis before demonstrating a quick move with her hands. “Hula is about expression!” she adds.

Mycroft is very much reminded of a younger Sherlock.

“I pick flowers the way I want,” Gregory declares with a finality that makes Annie frown but after frowning at each other for seconds, the two start smiling and Mycroft decides this is better than tea with Her Majesty.

“We could teach Mycroft a bit Hula! I bet he can do the pick-flowers-move better than you!” Annie suddenly exclaims, excitement taking over.

The two men eye each other with something close to horror.

“No, bug, I’m not ready to embarrass myself in front of people,” Gregory says.

“Fine... but soon, okay?” Annie tries to wrestle a promise from him.

“Sure,” the detective says and Mycroft knows he does absolutely not mean it. So does Annie, but neither of them comments on it.

Soon after that he has to leave, though, and after he sets a time for a call later to discuss Moriarty, he leaves (even though Annie is pouting at him).

In the evening, he informs the detective about the latest Moriarty activity and the topic is slightly dampening the good mood a bit Gregory was in before, but before they hang up, he says: “Today was nice. I think Annie likes you better than me.” He chuckles.

“Of course she doesn’t. And I have to say, you have a charming niece. I didn’t mean to intrude today, though,” Mycroft admits.

“Nah, you basically saved my life. I don’t think I could’ve survived more Hula.”

“A shame I never witnessed your flower picking.”

“You’re definitely missing out,” Lestrade says with a laugh. “Anyway, thanks for stopping by today. Enjoy your evening!”

“You too.”

X

For her birthday on 3rd July, Annie Baker receives a small bouquet of flowers. And although there’s no sender, the small card her mum reads to her says:

_This is my ‘move’ of picking flowers. Many Happy Returns, Miss Baker._

Her Uncle Greg laughs when she tells him about it.


	6. Never Meddle With Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Women are evil and Mycroft owes Sherlock massive favours.  
> Also, kissing. (Not any women, though. Or Sherlock, for that matter.)

* * *

**“Oooh here I am baby, signed, sealed, delivered – I’m yours.”**

**(Signed, Sealed, Delivered – Stevie Wonder)**

* * *

**15 th September 2010**

In September, a woman enters Mycroft’s life. Admittedly, she enters the life of a member of the Royal family before and, well – entering really is to be used in every sense of the word here.

Irene Adler’s website is open on Mycroft’s computer and he and Anthea stare at it with blatant anger. Well, Mycroft is angry. Displeased at least. Anthea’s face is neutral as usual but she feels her boss’ anger and wisely stays silent and in the background.

“Get my brother.”

“Sir, Doctor Watson is not at home. Your brother might… not be inclined to cooperate.”

An icy glare is all the answer she gets and an hour later, a sheet-clad Sherlock Holmes is on his way to Buckingham Palace.

**“He’s not wearing any pants. – A”**

One recipient of the text rolls his eyes so hard they threaten to be stuck that way. The other recipient texts back.

**“Who, Mycroft? – GL”**

**“No, the brother. Be ready, Detective Inspector. – A”**

Sherlock, in the car, eyes texting Anthea with distaste, although the general good mood he’s in ever since he walked out of Baker Street with a suit-clad man carrying his clothes never falters.

“How’s my brother’s diet going?”

She doesn’t look up from her phone (he’s not worth it). “Better than your being clean.”

X

**“Is it a Holmes thing to meet the Queen naked? – G”**

**“The situation is serious, Gregory. And Sherlock did not meet Her Majesty. – M”**

**“John mentioned it when we escorted your drugged brother home from the premises of one Irene Adler. – G”**

**“Doctor Watson is delightful as usual. – M”**

[Incoming call]

“Bad day?”

Mycroft sighs (Greg smiles fondly when he hears it because as far as he knows, Mycroft only ever allows himself such a sound in front of him.) “You can’t imagine.”

“Probably not,” Greg admits and stretches out on the sofa. “But seriously – is Sherlock okay? John says he’s fine but… he’s not relapsed, right?”

“I believe not, no.”

“In that case… check your email tomorrow. I filmed him.”

Mycroft’s laugh is unexpected but welcome anyway. Greg’s had his own problems lately, but he thinks that hearing Mycroft Holmes laugh (and being the one responsible for it!) makes up for a lot.

X

**Christmas 2010**

They meet up on Christmas Day in the afternoon. Greg is on his way to Baker Street but by now he hasn’t seen Mycroft in a while. Too long, basically. (They do talk on the phone surprisingly often, though, with one of them finding one reason or the other to call and then conversation simply drifts away from business to pleasure. They are busy men, of course, but find that only ten or fifteen minutes of late night talk are… nice.)

“You’re sure you don’t want to come? Could be fun,” Greg asks, working his best definitely-not-puppy-eyes-because-he’s-a-grown-man.

“Sometimes your definition of fun differs a lot from mine,” Mycroft replies with exasperation, but his smirk betrays him.

When Greg first arrived, the situation was a bit… awkward. Strange. Mycroft had been distant and his engaging personality had only been the façade Greg has come to known as Mycroft’s politician act. Soon enough, though, the real Mycroft has come through and only then Greg has found himself relaxing, too.

(Mycroft has so many faces, moods, expressions, tones, ways of cocking his head, moving his hands, sitting, standing – he’s so much more than people see and Greg likes finding out these things. Likes it a lot, actually.)

Back in the now, he teases: “Now, that’s a lie! And you have to be good to be visited by Father Christmas.”

“Father Christmas stopped coming by when Sherlock announced it was the local postman in fancy dress,” Mycroft deadpans and Greg is torn between ‘aww’ing – which he doesn’t because you don’t ‘aww’ Mycroft – and laughing so hard he almost falls off his chair. He sets for almost choking on his drink which his not less graceful and – and that is _very_ interesting – sets Mycroft into motion. He reaches out for Greg’s hand in worry and although Greg’s face regains its natural colour soon enough the long fingers remain where they are in a light touch on the back of Greg’s hand.

Although he is excited for the Christmas gathering at Baker Street, Greg is reluctant to leave Mycroft when the time comes. Something, however, brightens his mood upon departure quite a bit. Because someone – Anthea, the sneaky ninja – has hung mistletoe over the doorframe through which both men have to go.

Now, Greg is past the point of caring about complications anymore – he is almost done with his divorce (and although he does miss Lilly he is ultimately okay with it), he is attracted to Mycroft Holmes and he’s a grown man – both of them are, actually – so when he licks his lips before catching Mycroft’s eyes and leaning in (and Mycroft actually _awaits_ a kiss on the cheek, the bastard, so ‘I’m not interested’ my arse!) and the other man stays put, Greg can’t help but feel his stomach tingle and he grins into the kiss he plants on Mycroft’s lips.

Oh, the glorious moment when Greg feels Mycroft responding, leaning closer, hands fluttering up and fingers winding themselves around the DI’s left hand.

Then they break the kiss, Mycroft’s cheeks are tinted in a faint pink and Greg wishes him a ‘Merry Christmas’ before leaving for the madness that probably awaits him at Baker Street.

(Of course there is madness – a moaning phone, Molly Hooper in a stunning dress -Greg is not blind, after all- and then Irene Adler is found dead.)

X

Irene Adler is dead.

Or not.

And Jim Moriarty knows about Coventry. And Bond Air.

One of the Koreas is being difficult.

(Mycroft doesn’t want to (doesn’t know how to) deal with the fact that kissing Gregory Lestrade is more interesting than it should be. Than he dreamed it would be.)

So when Gregory asks him out between Christmas and New Year and Mycroft tells him, quote, that he has no time for this foolery and they both have business with women to attend to (not-dead Irene Adler, soon-to-be-divorced Lilly Lestrade née King), he messes up. The text telling Gregory to look after Sherlock because he’s behaving more unusual than, well, usual with the whole Irene business, doesn’t help either.

**“I don’t run when you call. Not your dog, Mr. Holmes. – GL”**

The text stings. _“Mr. Holmes”_ stings. _“GL”_ stings.

Mycroft hides it. Is irritable. Almost starts a war.

Not so subtle, then.

( _Petulant,_ their mother’s voice, usually saving this word for his little brother, says in his head.)

January and February fly past, busy and silent.

Then it’s March, spring, the sun comes out, and Anthea, who has come to like Lestrade (something Mycroft has never seen her do with anyone – but him – and it darkens his mood (obviously not because of jealousy though)) finally decides to speaks up.

Mycroft has noticed her watch him more closely, of course, and she has kept an eye on the DI, too, but he was quite frankly busy with other things so what she does with her time doesn’t bother him as long as she does her work quickly and precisely. Which she does.

He thinks (dreads) he knows what’s coming when she remains by his side after she brings him tea but he remains stoically silent until she voices what she wants to say.

“Sir, permission to speak freely?”

Ah, so it _is_ about the situation with Lestrade. Mycroft feels like glaring at the thought of the childish silence between the DI and him that absolutely doesn’t match the very grown-up kissing on Christmas – ah, getting distracted. Again.

Fine. If Anthea really thinks this is necessary.

“Go on,” Mycroft says with a stroppy motion of his hand, glaring at everyone and no one in particular. Of course Anthea is not impressed the slightest bit.

“You behaved like a colossal arse.” In an afterthought, she adds: “Excuse the language.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow. He doesn’t allow himself more, but it’s enough for his PA’s trained eye to understand the silent ‘you have my attention’ (and the underlying threat of ‘I could have you executed if they still did that witch-burning-thing’).

“DI Lestrade has received his divorce papers. Divorce papers from the woman he’s been married to for 18 years. Telling him to use his free time to put up with your brother and The Woman is not what a mate wants to hear.”

Appalled by her use of ‘mate’ – and also a bit disturbed because even Anthea seems to be unable to resist from referring to that atrocious dominatrix in a capitalized way – Mycroft takes a moment to consider his reply.

“How… insightful.”

Anthea smirks (which is really only a miniscule lift of one of her corners of the mouth but Mycroft knows it). “A woman’s gift.”

“Sometimes I forget…” he murmurs – it’s one of the rare occasions when he leaves a sentence unfinished.

Anthea _is_ a woman. And as such sometimes a tad more emphatic than men. (More than Mycroft, at least.)

“I know, Sir.”

A glance at his watch finalizes what he has in mind. “We’re done for today. The weather is good enough for a walk, I think.”

She gives him one of her rare smiles. “Absolutely.”

And then they go for a walk, and Mycroft has a proper think.

X

**1 st March 2011**

Greg doesn’t like how much the calm “I’m sorry” coming from Mycroft after almost two months of silence and anger and being hurt and grumpy means, how it makes him smile, grin like an idiot even, and somehow just makes everything better - but it does.

(Then he has a miraculous week off and two plane tickets to Hawaii with his and Annie’s name on them, which definitely adds to the forgiving part.)

He calls Mycroft on the evening before the flight, half trying to make him take the tickets back (although he secretly yearns for the holiday and Annie is bouncing up and down all day because “HAWAII UNCLE GREG!”) and half just wanting to hear Mycroft’s voice and thank him properly and probably have Annie yell into _his_ ears for a couple of minutes.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“It was merely a case of re-attributing two tickets, of which the previous owners’ passports have expired.”

“Unexpectedly, I imagine.” Greg can’t bring himself to feel sorry. Mycroft never willfully harms any person without a good reason.

“That is confidential. Enjoy your holiday.”

“You should come along, Mycroft. Really.”

There is a small sigh, but Mycroft’s voice is nothing if not smooth. “Another time.”

“Promise,” Greg, in a very Annie-ish manner tries to wrestle an actual promise from Mycroft. “You sound tired. I could stay. I could help.” He’s offering it, now, and they both know how much it means.

X

Greg doesn’t stay, Mycroft doesn’t get help.

Annie forces her uncle into actual Hula classes (and makes her friends film him and forward it to the British Government), Coventry fails.

Annie and Greg tan equally easy and thoroughly and after only two days are brown as nuts.

Mycroft is almost beaten by the Woman, and it’s his little brother who sort-of-saves him.

Greg and Annie make a thank you present for Mycroft.

X

When Greg arrives back in London, he forces his way to Mycroft’s office and almost drags him out by the collar for an afternoon with Annie and a night at the bar.

He hears about Irene, and reaches out for Mycroft’s hand easily, never letting go of it after.

That night, he asks him to stay the night, but Mycroft declines. However, he initiates a kiss and it tastes of sun and warmth and London and rain.

“Don’t forget your present,” Greg reminds a slightly ruffled, slightly out-of-breath Mycroft and the politician smiles, giving the bag sitting on the small ledge of the wall next to him a small pat. “Never.”

Then he leaves with his hand-woven doormat reading:

_Heart is where the Holmes is._

X

**“Aww. – A”**

**“Do not ‘aww’ me, Anthea. – G”**

X

When Mycroft and Anthea enter the office at Whitehall early on Monday morning and find Sherlock sitting there, they share a quick glance (only readable as dismay to one another) before Anthea vanishes and leaves the brothers alone.

“And people dislike Monday mornings,” Mycroft says in a way of greeting and a strained smile. Sherlock is sitting in his chair, so he remains standing, looming over his younger brother, who openly displays his dismay, but also has a strange, amused glint in his eyes.

Careful now.

“I find they are less tedious if your brother owes you a massive favour because you saved his colossal backside from-“

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“A harpoon. _This_ harpoon, to be precise,” the younger Holmes tells him, still strangely chipper, while sliding his phone over the desk.

Mycroft eyes the picture for a moment. “It might take until this afternoon. It is a unique piece of art, after all. Not that you would know,” he adds sweetly, but remains careful when Sherlock doesn’t bat an eyelash at the quip.

Sherlock leans back in the chair, his bright eyes focused entirely on his brother, and the smirk that slowly tugs at the corners of his mouth gives Mycroft a really bad feeling.

“Do take your time, brother dear. You are a busy man, after all.” Sherlock is so sweet that Mycroft actually thinks about calling security just to wipe the smile off his brother’s face. He doesn’t.

“Interesting to see you noticed.”

Sherlock now fully grins. “Yes, of course. I mean... finishing up _this_ old thing-“ he plucks a piece of paper from the pocket of his coat and Mycroft _knows_ what this is about all of the sudden. “Good to know how dedicated the government is to _important_ things nowadays.”

“You’re still picking locks then?”

“Oh, it took me almost 27 seconds, so your security definitely has improved,” Sherlock replies easily.

“The harpoon, then.” Mycroft knows it’s a fruitless attempt of getting rid of Sherlock, but sometimes he still tries. It might work one day. (Yes, as if that is ever going to happen.)

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock waves distractedly, studying the piece of paper covered in Mycroft’s handwriting. “ But I thought we could have a little _chat_.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “We never chat.”

“We could start.”

“We could not.”

“Could.”

“Could not.” Oh for God’s sake.

“I could cross out the first point for you,” Sherlock helpfully supplies, grinning innocently. (That look will most likely follow Mycroft into his nightmares for weeks.) “That’s what people do, don’t they? With these lists.”

Mycroft remembers something. “You would know.”

However, Sherlock doesn’t. His face, for a second, shows anger at not understanding what Mycroft is referring to (he genuinely doesn’t remember?) but then the glee at having something against his brother is back.

“Not very successful with this, are you?”

No. No he’s not. In addition to completely messing up with points two to five and now the first one, too, the whole Irene Adler business has once again showed him that women are not to mess with.

“Anyway, I think I’ve made my point, haven’t I,” Sherlock concludes when Mycroft simply glares at him. “The harpoon and I think another favour at one point, don’t you? Great.” And with that, he tosses the crumpled list on Mycroft’s desk and disappears through the door.

Seconds later, though, his head pokes around the threshold again and he adds: “Oh, and try to keep your sticky fingers out of my life, will you? I don’t need you to _protect_ me,” he bites out with a vicious undertone before, finally, leaving.

(Neither of the brothers knows that soon, Sherlock will need help. And neither of them will speak about the list then.)

X

“Hey Mycroft!”

“Gregory. What an unexpected pleasure.”

The smirk in the DI’s voice is audible although he sounds tired. Another night shift then. “Is it, though? I’ll give you a hint: harpoon.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. I’m not sure _I_ want to know why, but 43 people on the tube today absolutely do. Oh, and two want Sherlock’s contact details to send him a bill from the dry cleaners for blood stains on their suits.” Gregory still sounds like he is grinning and Mycroft really would be amused by that if his brother wouldn’t always get into these sort of messes and-

Anthea silently steps in and slides a piece of paper over for him to read.

“Gregory, I’m afraid I will have to end this conversation.”

And that’s what they do.

After a quick check on Sherlock and John, who are indeed going to Dartmoor, Mycroft and Anthea do a bit of the work they’re actually paid to do (hunting down ancient harpoons because you owe your little brother a favour is time-consuming but surprisingly part of neither of their jobs) and just when Anthea goes for lunch and Mycroft has a tiny break to read the paper, he gets an urgent message.

He texts quickly (urgh, texting) before leaving the Diogenes for a phone call.

“Gregory. Do you fancy another short holiday?”

The DI is immediately weary, but still trusting. “Where to?”

“Beautiful Dartmoor.”

 

 


	7. Everyone Is Stupider Than You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea tells her story. Mycroft and Greg finally do the dirty. Sherlock is traumatised. These things happen in a different order and are not linked in any way.

* * *

**"Give me something fun to do, like a life of loving you"**

**(Something In The Water - Brooke Fraser)**

* * *

**16 th March 2011**

**"You're really missing out. [Image sent] - G"**

While waiting for a reply, Greg wriggles his mud-crusted toes, grinning at the way the dirt crumbles from them. John and he bask in the sun for a bit while Sherlock - well...

  
**"Anthea swears on these sort of masks. Do you want to be prettier, too? I'm sure she'll appreciate the company. - M"**

  
Teasing, Mycroft? Greg grins even broader at the use of the comparative - no Holmes uses grammar without knowing what exactly their constructions express - and ignores John's questioning look before he types:

  
**"Then Sherlock is going to be the prettiest of us all. - G"**

  
Although Sherlock swore to destroy either of them, John and Greg, if a word of the _incident_ got out of the safe (and most important distant) premises of Dartmoor, Greg thinks Mycroft has deserved a treat for everything he had to put up with with the debacle at Baskerville. And besides, Sherlock is singing surprisingly small since John found out about the drugging of his tea. (“Which wasn’t even actually drugged, Lestrade! John is just overreact-“ A glare from John had silenced Sherlock’s complaints.)

John is not really angry much anymore. Not since half an hour earlier, anyway. The three of them – well, mainly Greg and John – had decided to spent another couple of days in Dartmoor, seeing as they were already here and now no monstrous hounds were terrorizing the moor anymore. Sherlock grudgingly had accepted his fate of having to go for a day-trip in the area and had promptly almost drowned in the moor when he went off the road.

Of course Greg and John had pulled him out immediately (just not immediately enough for him not to be completely covered in mud. True, his rescuers sunk in to their knees, but Sherlock. Well... his skin was almost the same colour as Sally’s by then and not even a dry-cleaner would be able to rescue the shirt he’d been wearing.)

“Do you think he’ll ever come out of the bathroom?” Greg asks, holding his face into the sun.

“Not until he’s used up all the warm water out of spite,” John replies easily, keeping his face turned to the warmth, too.

Conversation is easy, sometimes interrupted my Greg’s phone which chimes with incoming texts from Mycroft and – twice – Anthea (the weather is great in London, too, and while neither of them would voice it, they’re having what the rest of the world would call ‘a lazy day’) until John asks, a bit curious: “You didn’t really come here for a holiday, did you?”

Greg grins. “Nah, Mycroft asked me to go after Sherlock broke into Baskerville.”

 “So you and Mycroft talk?”

“Yup. We’ve actually known each other for years. Did you really think he didn’t care who kept an eye on his brother before you showed up?”

 John makes a thoughtful face. “Yeah, okay, point taken. It’s just... never mind.”

 Greg has a feeling he knows what John wants to say, but he doesn’t touch the subject and instead says: “Strange how I keep sane with two Holmes’ around?” John laughs and Greg continues a bit more serious: “Mycroft really is okay when you get to know him. Sherlock makes him out to be the baddie, but – I’m not judging or anything – you haven’t been around a couple of years ago. It’s not my place to tell you, but maybe Sherlock will eventually. Mycroft has done a lot for him.” And for me, Greg adds in his head.

 John makes a non-committal sound, and they both go back to silence and enjoying the sun, as long as the monster from the lagoon is still in the bathroom.

X

"I brought you something."

  
Mycroft obviously figured as much, seeing as Gregory is carrying a large brown paper bag in his arms, but he can't help but be surprised (and slightly worried.)

  
"From Baskerville," the other man then clarifies and now Mycroft _is_ alarmed. It is Baskerville, after all.

  
However, curiousity and the fact alone that it's a present from the DI quickly win over and he says: "Thank you. Although I do hope this is not some caveman trophy as in part of the dog."

  
Gregory laughs (which is infinitely more interesting than any possible dog-part) and tells him: "No, we made necklaces out of its teeth but I'm only wearing that at home."

  
"How manly," Mycroft teases and Gregory puffs up his chest a bit and squares his jaw before his features soften and he gently nudges the thing in the bag towards Mycroft.

  
To say it's not at all what the older Holmes possibly could have expected would be an understatement.

  
In a tiny bowl filled with water, a single goldfish with a raggedy tail is swimming round and round. It's not the bright orange ones you usually see, but a dark brown one.

 (Almost the colour of Gregory’s eyes, Mycroft’s brain helpfully provides and he has to restrain himself from gazing lovingly into those exact eyes because that is highly unprofessional and inadequate at the moment- what about snogging people senseless as a thank you?- well, no, Mycroft Holmes does not _snog_.)

  
He realizes he has stared silently at the animal for quite some time when he looks up and finds Gregory's eyes fixed on him, a small smile playing around his lips.

"Sherlock mentioned you being... amenable towards these little guys so I figured I could get you one. Professor Stapleton provided it - you haven't seen the best part though!" And while Mycroft is still deciding on whether to have his brother locked up, or being amused by a very excitable almost-40- year old Detective Inspector, Gregory switches off the light - and the goldfish starts to glow in a silvery white light.

X

“What is that?”

“ _Carassius gibelio forma auratus._ A veiltail,” Mycroft replied, watching Anthea watch the little fish lap around in its bowl.

“Mycroft, why do you have a goldfish?”

There were only two instances in their collaboration so far when Anthea had called him by his first name.

x

**_September 2006_ **

_Mycroft’s phone rings with an unknown number, which should probably alarm him since no-one unknown to him has that number, but it really just makes him curious. He answers with a cold, clipped “Yes.”_

_“Is this Mycroft?” a female voice asks, unsure, but doing her best to sound firm. She is not sure if calling was a good idea, but is set on something. Mycroft is intrigued._

_“Yes.”_

_“Listen, Mycroft,” the woman then says without missing a beat. “There is some sort of assassination planned at the Southbank Centre event tomorrow evening. You are one of the targets.”_

_Mycroft could ask who she is. Instead, he asks: “How do you know that?”_

_“I’m supposed to kill you,” she admits freely, but sounding calm. She’s not distressed in the least - and yet she chose to warn him. It could be a trap, of course. But Mycroft is confident in his reading skills and is sure she is being honest with him._

_“Carry on as usual. We will meet at 8 o’clock tomorrow evening at the bar.  
_

_And thus the phone call ends._

_Mycroft informs the right people. A larger bomb and some minor explosives are detected and removed. And Mycroft meets the young woman who will become ‘Anthea’ at the bar. The next morning, she is his PA._

 

**_April 2009_ **

_“Everything is fine, Mycroft,” Anthea says when she comes back from the hallway to check out a small noise._

_Which of course means nothing is fine. “Very well,” Mycroft says. “Pass me the files on Richardson, please.” She complies easily and when she passes the files, taps the inside of Mycroft’s wrist three times before letting her finger slide down towards the inside of Mycroft’s palm._

_Inside job. Three people. They’re coming here._

_He has people on the outside whom he can trust. And obviously Anthea. All they can do is wait for these people to arrive. (Anthea will have them informed by now.)_

_His eyes flicker towards a drawer in his desk and Anthea nods barely visible. She knows what she has to do. Mycroft cannot be hold captive. Not by these people. If they threaten to take him, she will have to prevent him from being taken. And shooting the captors is not always a solution. If it comes down to it, she will have to choose the more obvious target._

_It doesn’t come down to it that day, but Mycroft goes to bed that night thankful for small mercies. Like his Anthea._

x

**Back in the now**

“The Detective Inspector provided it,” Mycroft explains, reassuring Anthea that this is not some secret sign she hasn’t gotten the memo about yet and that Mycroft still is in full possession of his mind.

A small, amused grin threatens to break free on her face – if she allowed herself such a gesture – and Mycroft can’t help but watch the small fish fondly.

“You should name it, Sir.”

“I would have thought the choice was obvious,” he remarks and she makes an understanding face.

“Of course. Shall we perhaps find something a bit more spacious for him?”

Mycroft eyes the small fishbowl for a moment and then nods. And thus Greg the fish (because no matter how much Mycroft might disagree, Gregory is too big a name for a veiltail) moves into a medium sized fish tank next to Mycroft’s desk.

X

Anthea knows she’ll regret this for a long time, but she nevertheless steps out of her car and starts going through a small satchel in her hands, pretending to be obvious.

Obvious to the man she has noticed on CCTV a couple of days ago, lurking around the DI’s flat. A quick check with the database has proven that he is most likely associated with Moriarty. Lestrade probably hasn’t noticed yet because he’s wrapped up in a murder and the younger Holmes is not in a helpful mood. And Anthea would absolutely have informed Mycroft if he wouldn’t be busy with the Americans right now. Very busy. The kind of busy that can end in rolling heads if you were not careful.

So Anthea decides to take matters in her own hands. And better yet, get rid of the scum obviously planning on assassinating Lestrade, who has arrived home ten minutes ago in a fashion at least the _DI_ would approve of. (Mycroft will want the man's head on a plate but that's not exactly practical now, is it?)

The man (Armenian, 38 years old, limping slightly – injured left leg) passes her without sparing her a second glance. He is a bit disturbed, however, when she takes his legs out from under him. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he?

The fight naturally attracts attention and the neighbours, who know Lestrade is a copper and feel like this is something he should handle, no matter if he’s on duty or not, quickly ring him out of his flat. Meanwhile, Anthea has acquired two bruises and a cut to her cheek, but the Armenian is unconscious and disarrayed and when a knackered DI in sweatpants appears on the curb, badge and gun at the ready, she looks up and says drily: “He tried to rob me, Detective Inspector.”

Half an hour later, the man is taken away (and will face court for assault and battery, attempted murder and – as soon as Anthea’s people have confirmed his identity - for murder in 17 cases) and Anthea is sitting in Lestrade’s flat, coffee in front of her.

“How long until Mycroft gets here?”

“About an hour.” Anthea’s still grumpy that Lestrade made her inform Mycroft. The whole purpose of this was that he didn’t need to be disturbed.

Lestrade eyes her with a tired grin. “I’ve never seen you grumpy.”

She hides her surprise – but then again, Mycroft is fond of him and he has proven not to be an idiot, so why is she surprised at all? – and answers as politely as she can: “It was unnecessary to inform Mr. Holmes right away. I would have done so after his meeting.”

“Come on, you two are like... besties! He needs to know if you have been hurt!” Lestrade argues.

Anthea wants to snort, but of course doesn’t. “We are not ‘besties’, Detective Inspector-“

“Greg.”

She nods, but he has the feeling she’s not going to use his name anyway. “Mr. Holmes is my employer and as such, it is my duty to do what is necessary to secure the wellbeing of him and those he associates with.”

“But you care about him. And he cares about you.”

For a while, she says nothing, and they both sip their coffees. She misses her phone (which is broken since she used the satchel to cream the Armenian with it) but Lestrade – Greg – is surprisingly good company without trying to pry. Unlike a certain doctor. Also, her boss trusts him. Maybe it’s time for him to understand a few things.

“When I first met Mr. Holmes, it was after a phone call from me telling him that I was supposed to kill him.” She studies Lestrade intensely, but the man simply listens, feeling that this is a one-time chance to get to look not only into Anthea’s head but also into the unique relationship she has with Mycroft Holmes. “I was part of a catering service and accidentally listened in on plans to assassinate not only a certain ‘Mycroft’ but also a couple of other guests at an event on the southbank. I acquired his number-“ _how_ is a story for another day and let’s just say Mycroft did not only employ her because of her tea-serving skills, “-and warned him. He showed up anyway and hired me. He gave me a new life because the people I had given away quickly realized who had been responsible for their failure. He saved my life, Detective Inspector." 

“So now you’re protecting his?”

“While he is not as socially inept as his brother, he does have a lot of enemies. With this job come a lot of responsibilities. But Mr. Holmes has never shown me anything but kindness and I am willing to repay him for that.” After a couple of seconds, she adds: “Plus, the pay is infinitely better than what I received for juggling trays.”

Lestrade grins (and yes, she can see what Mycroft sees in him!) before asking: “Is that your form of warning of ‘If you break his heart I will kill you with a tea tray’?”

“I don’t need a tea tray for that, Detective Inspector.” She will not call him Greg. “But yes.”

He looks amused and she gives him a small, sincere smile, which is more than most people ever receive.

X

Mycroft realizes time is too precious to be wasted by concerns. While his brother gains fame, he does his job and does what he’s best at – politics.

But Gregory does his job, too, and whenever Anthea reports an injury to the Detective Inspector (is it fate that he is the one investigating these cases where the offenders are aggressive and generally attack instead of just letting themselves be caught?), Mycroft cringes inwardly.

And so, when they have another night out, there is no question that they will spend the night together. Gregory is absolutely not averse to this proposition at all and so it’s exactly what they do. 

X

If Anthea smirks because Mycroft is in an exceptionally good mood the next day, she doesn’t comment on it.

And if Greg is a bit late for work because he has to stop at home to change clothes, he doesn’t comment on it because he’s the DI here, he can do what he wants and what better excuse is there to be late than because he spent the night with Mycroft Holmes? Nothing, that’s what.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might slow down a bit due to life.  
> However, I appreciate every kudos and comment, so thanks for those and I promise I try to be quick with updates.  
> Love always,  
> Hanna


	8. Protect Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock falls (down a hospital). Mycroft falls (into a net of lies). Lestrade falls (out of love). No wait, not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as this takes place in my Bucket-List-universe, which was established before S3 came out, Mycroft, as opposed to in the series, didn't plan everything with Moriarty. Here, he messes up and then makes it right afterwards. Also, Sherlock is only gone six months. Bear with me, please :)

* * *

**“The winner takes it all, the loser has to fall”**

**(The Winner Takes It All – ABBA)**

* * *

 

**June 2011, the night of the funeral**

Sherlock has fallen, down St. Bart’s Hospital. He’s hit the ground, blood colouring the concrete red under his lifeless body. John saw. John felt it.

Today, he’s been buried, a black, bleak headstone marking the grave of the greatest fraud of the century.

Sherlock sits in an armchair in one of Mycroft’s houses, dark circles under his eyes. He has been fighting with Mycroft for hours already, but the older brother refuses to go to bed, to leave his younger brother alone with the dark thoughts and the general feeling of a danger night.

He has gone from gloating about his victory over Moriarty, to missing the evil genius, to being angry, furious with John Watson for not attending the funeral, until he could finally direct his hatred to the one person deserving it. Mycroft.

Several comments about his weight, his job, his appearance and general Mycroft-ness later, Sherlock has arrived at the one topic he knows will sting most.

Mycroft can’t bring himself to feel angry about it, though, because he knows what makes his brother lash out. He takes it silently.

“What will Lestrade think? About you _lying_ to him?” Sherlock’s voice is vicious and cuts through the air like razorblades. Mycroft refuses to listen too closely to anything his brother says.

However, he is right. Of course he is. Sherlock is nothing if not bright. And in his anger, in his fear, in his... pain, he lashes out with the most powerful weapon he has – his mind.

“Or is he used to it by now? Used to the lies you have to tell him because you cannot possibly talk about your day without doing so. I would say he doesn’t deserve you, but if he’s stupid enough to get involved with you, you’re _exactly_ what he deserves.”

“I don’t lie to him if it’s not avoidable.”

“Half-truths, then? Is that what helps you sleep at night?”

Mycroft could point out that half-truths are Sherlock’s expertise, that he is the one lying to everyone at the moment, has been lying to John Watson on more than one occasion.

But then he sees his brother’s sunken eyes, the corpse-like hue to his skin-tone and the way his finger tremble ever so slightly in need of a fix. And he remains silent.

Endless rivers of viciousness coming from Sherlock’s mouth later, his younger brother bonelessly flops down on a sofa and closes his eyes.

“Make sure John can stay at Baker Street if he wishes to do so.”

“Doctor Watson... is not fond of me at the moment. But if that is his wish, I shall of course be of assistance.”

“Of course he’s not fond of you – he’s not _stupid_!” his brother tells him off and this is the moment Mycroft realizes just what is going on. It’s not just affection, or sentiment. It’s so much more-

_Oh Sherlock. The mess you are in._

Sherlock blinks an eye open and instantly looks annoyed. “What’s that face you’re making?!”

“Could you possibly be referring to my normal face?”

“If you’d go as far and call that normal...”

It is a long night. At the end of it, Mycroft tries to feel aggravated about the insults and his brother in general, but all he feels is a distinct sadness and something that could be considered as... guilt.

Sherlock leaves for Russia, and Mycroft for work. They have a criminal network to dismantle, after all.

X

 

**“I won’t be able to make it tonight. – M”**

He sends the text without thinking too much about it. He feels he cannot possibly be around Gregory now, or ever again. Not when the Detective Inspector is feeling so extremely guilty for something that is not his fault.

Mycroft thinks that if he has to see him, he will yell from the rooftops that it’s not his fault, that not even Donovan or Anderson have any fault because Moriarty planted something inside their heads, inside everyone’s head, and Sherlock fuelled that. His brilliant, handsome Gregory has no fault in this.

But of course he can’t know. It would probably be best to-

Mycroft refuses to follow that track of thoughts. For now.

X

The funeral has been sad. For more than the obvious reason, that is.

Besides himself, the only other people there were a sobbing Mrs. Hudson and a stoic looking Mycroft, who disappeared as soon as the coffin had been lowered into the ground.

John has not showed up and while Greg doesn’t understand, at the same time he _does_ understand.

What he wants now is to see Mycroft, to talk to him, to be able to be there for him because he lost his bloody _brother_ , the one he is- was willing to fight a world war for, if necessary. Greg also wants to be told it wasn’t his fault, even when he knows it was.

This night, there is no text or call from Mycroft.

Greg’s on leave for now, and frankly, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. John doesn’t want to talk. Mycroft is nowhere to be found. Anthea doesn’t text back. Sherlock is dead.

Greg’s not lonely. He has mates. But none of them would understand. So he doesn’t call them. He calls his sister, and asks her if she thinks that this is his fault. She says “No, Greg, no of course it isn’t. You were always there for him. He knew that, I’m sure.” He wants to think she is right, but he isn’t sure anymore. “How is Mycroft?” she asks. He doesn’t know, he says.

Night falls over London, and Greg gets a text message from Mycroft. He reads it, then gets into a car.

X

Of course the men who tackled Gregory down will face severe consequences, but when Mycroft sees his precious detective’s face swelling with a bruise (and that is the only colour, basically, in a pale, tired face), he couldn’t care less about any of his employees.

“They wouldn’t let me through,” Gregory says as a way of explanation, and he seemingly doesn’t care about the pain. Of course they wouldn’t let him through, Mycroft gave orders. (Although he didn’t want his Gregory to suffer because of that. He’s slipping, and he knows it, and he can’t stop it.) The bruised man doesn’t get angry. Instead, he asks: “Can we please go home without fighting over this?”

Mycroft doesn’t want to. He can’t. But Sherlock is not the only Holmes with self-destructive behaviour. And so they go home together, to one of Mycroft’s houses on the outskirts of London. He doesn’t look at his-

They didn’t even have the time to find a proper label for each other. Not that they need it. But it makes it hard to think about Gregory in any other way than _his_. It is enough for Mycroft.

Gregory only speaks up when they are alone, in the big dark house. There’s a fire going in the fireplace in the bedroom, and while Gregory sits on the bed, holding a cold flannel against his bruising cheek, Mycroft can’t help but pace slowly in front of the fire.

“Mycroft.”

He can’t look up, because if he does, the guilt might show in his face, Sherlock’s words burnt into his mind might show on his face and Gregory might not be a Sherlock, but he has proven incredibly apt at reading Mycroft’s face. He cannot see.

“You lost your brother. You’re allowed to feel like shit,” Gregory ventures on, voice soft.

Like shit maybe, but not guilt-ridden. The worst thing is, Gregory feels guilty without reason and should only feel sad, while he thinks that Mycroft only feels sad when he’s just feeling guilty.

“It was always a possibility the whole Moriarty-scenario would end badly,” Mycroft finally says, and stares into the fire, which is safer than looking at Gregory.

He hears a small, defeated grunt. “If I had just-“

Oh, that is just not acceptable. Against all his resolutions, Mycroft hurries over and touches Gregory’s unbruised cheek. “No, please don’t dwell on these thoughts. Moriarty not only played you, but also Sherlock-“ _and me, until we turned the tables,_ “and there was simply no way for you to see through his scheme. And even then, my brother’s mind was most likely made up long before we could have intervened in any way.”

Gregory looks up, his chocolate eyes almost black in the darkness, and they find Mycroft’s own blue ones easily. The sadness in them threatens to swallow up both of them.

“He was a good kid, at the end of the day,” Gregory finally, after a long silent moment between them, says. “I don’t believe the crap the papers said about him. I knew him. He wasn’t-“

“No, he was not. Remember him that way.” _And remember me as the man who- well, as the man you knew, because when he comes back, you won’t like the man I turn out to be._

Mycroft sits down next to his Gregory. He feels the warmth of Gregory’s body and for the first time in two days, he doesn’t feel cold.

“You and him, you were pretty alike sometimes,” the detective says with a small chuckle and the faintest trace of mischief sparks up in his eyes when he turns his head to look at Mycroft. “With your smart-arsery, and your drama and the way you never would have been caught agreeing with each other, even if you both knew you’d have to.”

Had Sherlock been in the room, both brothers would have done something ridiculous as hissing, probably – which only proves Gregory’s point further.

“I’ll take it as a compliment, then.”

In honour of Sherlock.

And then Mycroft accepts the pair of arms that closes around him. Accepts being pulled into a soothing embrace. Accepts being pulled down and held tight.

Because when Sherlock comes back, this will end. He is sure of it. And this night will be the memory he will treasure for the rest of his life.

X

Mycroft doesn’t get six months. He doesn’t even get six days.

John confronts him about Moriarty, and he tells him a form of truth. He tells him he messed up. He doesn’t tell him he helped Sherlock getting it right.

But John tells Gregory. And this is the beginning of the end.

X

Greg tells him he can’t trust him. He tells him this on the phone, because first of all, he can’t trust himself around Mycroft at the moment, and besides, he doesn’t really want to be tackled down again.

He doesn’t understand why Mycroft did what he did, why he associated with Moriarty at all, and then Greg realizes he doesn’t understand what Mycroft does half of the time. They have a great time when they’re together, and for obvious reasons, Mycroft doesn’t talk much about his work, and Greg doesn’t talk much about his, either (although Mycroft has most likely a high enough clearance to read any of the files at NSY if he wanted to anyway), but they talk about the things they like, things they hate. They kiss, they spent the night together. Mycroft sends him off to holidays as an apology.

But the thing that brought them together in the first place was Sherlock – their mutual care for the young Holmes. And Mycroft obviously threw that principle, the thing that made Greg see him, really see him for the first time, out of the window at the opportunity to do... whatever with Jim Moriarty.

He can’t see Mycroft and think of this betrayal every time. So he doesn’t meet with Mycroft anymore. The calls and texts stop.

He still has his work, of course, because someone (Mycroft) apparently made sure that he wasn’t kicked out for... everything. Even Sally and Anderson keep their jobs. And John is magically able to afford the rent at Baker Street all by himself.

Nothing much changes. (Except Sherlock is dead and it seems to be partly Mycroft’s fault.)

Greg, for the first time in a small eternity, feels lonely.

He remembers Annie’s words. _“I’m sad because you are a bit lonely now. You need someone so you’re not!”_

Well, his someone is not who he thought he’d be.

Annie visits as often as she can. But she, too, is sad.

X

**January 2012**

Sherlock is back from the dead and after John is done with being angry, he rejoices for a small eternity. Well, basically until Sherlock goes back to his old ways of letting a cat cadaver lying around in the flat. But even then, there is no sign of trouble coming from Baker Street.

NSY is a completely different matter. Of course not the whole NSY. Honestly, it’s just one person there. (Although that’s easily the most important person there. Or in the whole of London.)

Mycroft watches the video material of Detective Inspector Lestrade’s reunion with Sherlock and the fond smile that blossoms on his face when Gregory hugs his long-lost... friend and protégé tightly, while Sherlock sort of flails his arms a bit before accepting the sentimental gesture is only betrayed by the pang in his heart when he thinks back to the message on his answer phone he received that day. (Which was two days ago now, and it still hurts.)

“You utter bastard! You made me believe he was dead and now you can’t even be bothered to answer your bloody phone?!”

Anthea suffers with her boss, feels his hidden pain and tries to make him feel marginally better by bringing him tea before he can ask about it and letting her hand linger on his shoulder for a moment on the evening of the second day of the Lestrade-calypse.

“Why haven’t you talked to him, Sir?” she asks calmly and sits down when he tiredly gestures for her to do so.

He takes a moment to decide on his answer. “It might not end well.”

Which is Mycroft Holmes’ way of saying he is afraid because he has found something precious for once in his life, and he hates the thought of having to let go of it. (Not that it’s already in pieces for half a year now.)

“As opposed to the good situation you are in at the moment?” Anthea carefully prods and the fact that Mycroft doesn’t even glare at her shows her how serious the situation is.

“With all due respect, Sir-“ she stops herself and looks into the familiar blue eyes focusing on her, “with all due respect, Mycroft, you disposed of threats to Lestrade before, and you did the same thing for me. You cannot keep doing this to yourself. Lestrade would hate to see you like that, no matter how angry he is at the moment. And I don’t like seeing you like that, either.”

He dedicates a small smile at her. “Careful, Anthea, that could almost be mistaken for sentiment.”

“You must have understood me wrong, Sir,” she replies, her professional tone back in place, but her eyes intently focusing on his. “Do you want me to arrange for a meeting with the Detective Inspector in half an hour?”

Mycroft hesitates for only a moment, before he conjures up the steel in his eyes and the iron in his posture. He easily is the most dangerous man Anthea has ever known. In fact, there is nothing more dangerous than being loved, or cared about, by Mycroft Holmes. If he does, he will fight for you until death (and it’s usually the death of his opponent.) “Yes. But there is no persuasion to be used, if he is opposed to the idea.”

“Of course, Sir.”

X

“It was kind of you to come here,” Mycroft greets Gregory politely, keeping his distance because he simply doesn’t know if he still has the right to touch him. Trust Mycroft to rule the world, but right now his whole existence is disturbed by uncertainty about a single man.

“Yes, well, I think I deserve to hear your apology, wordy, twisted and intricate as it might be,” Gregory tells him without humour and his posture is guarded. There are rings under his eyes, although his sleepless nights are not because of guilt about Sherlock anymore.

They sit and Mycroft feels like the past 30-odd years have been for naught. He can’t even form one comprehensible sentence, much less be his usual suave, charming politician-self.

Then he realizes he doesn’t need all of that. What Gregory really, truly wants is honesty. And Mycroft thinks he can do that. For once, he can let down his guard, his education, the core of his being open, raw and obvious to the world. He will be completely honest. (It will likely be the last time he speaks with Gregory Lestrade anyway, so he can catch the bullet now. Doesn’t matter.)

He takes a deep breath and starts. “I made a mistake with Moriarty. A mistake I have lived to regret every single day. The one thing I could do was help Sherlock to get it right. I-,” he stops himself, starts over again, “ _we_ thought it best to keep it quiet. We tried to keep the people close to us away from it.”

Gregory’s face is still a mask of nothingness, but he asks: “It didn’t work?”

Mycroft answers with a humourless laugh that sounds too loud in his own ears and is harsh in the silence. “Why do you think he jumped? It wasn’t part of the original plan, if it could have been avoided. We were prepared, but it was supposed to only be an emergency plan.”

A long silence from Gregory follows, in which his face twists a bit and loses some of the hard lines. “Really?”

“John Watson. You. Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock’s weak points.”

Chocolate eyes drill themselves into his own. “Sherlock’s?”

“Moriarty didn’t know about us. Small mercies, I believe is the saying.”

“Us...” There is a touch of warmth in Gregory’s voice, although his mouth keeps a sad quirk to it. “I never told you I lo-“ he stops himself and Mycroft thinks that if that is the closest he will get to hearing those words, he will keep that half-sentence in his mind forever.

His Gregory (he will always remain _his_ in Mycroft’s head, even if this ends the way it inevitably will) focuses on something else. “So it’s over now? Sherlock is back for good?”  
  
This, Mycroft can answer completely honest and with as much happiness as he allows himself to seep into his voice whilst being on the verbal slaughter bench, waiting for his verdict. “Yes.”

X

Greg tries very hard not be touched by Mycroft’s apparent joy at his brother’s return.

“So you lied to me for half a year.”

Mycroft flinches, and Greg wants to feel good about that. Tries to be righteous. Instead, it just feels wrong. Mycroft says: “Necessary, if unwanted. Believe me, if-“

He can’t help snorting. “Believe you? Can I actually do that?”

This is how people look who have been kicked in the nuts. And apparently Mycroft Holmes when Greg asks that question.

“You have no reason to,” Mycroft admits and there’s a sadness in his eyes that Greg knows he’s privileged to see. “But... I have always been a man who knew what he wanted. Usually, I get it. I want nothing more than for you to believe me.”

“You can’t just take that.”

“I know. I’m asking you for forgiveness. And for trust. I’m asking you for so much, and I have nothing to give you in return.“

Greg smiles, and although it’s sad, it’s also somewhat affectionate. “This is probably the worst argument I’ve ever heard a politician make.”

“I’m not trying to get your vote.”

“Good, because I’m not even sure which party you belong to.”

When Mycroft tries to answer, Greg sends him a careful look and adds: “If you’re going to lie, don’t answer at all.”

Mycroft doesn’t flinch this time, but he might as well. However, he keeps his composure and answers: “I was going to say I’m not really a party person.” He attempts a smile. Greg mirrors it. It’s small, but it’s a beginning.

“I talked to Sherlock this morning,” Greg then tells him, in a conversational tone.

“I’m sure it was a delightful conversation,” Mycroft says with as much diplomacy as possible and now Greg has to grin because some things apparently don’t even change when your brother comes back from the dead.

“He said, and I’m quoting now, that we, meaning you and me, were ‘disgusting’ but that I ‘remain to be the best thing that has ever happened’ to you and that I should forgive you because you were ‘inducing the thought of actually committing suicide’ in Sherlock because of your ‘depressed, sorrow and pathetic’ state.”

“Like I anticipated – delightful,” Mycroft comments drily.

“Absolutely,” Greg agrees, before he gets serious again and focuses intently on Mycroft, who doesn’t blink. “Thing is... I don’t like the way things are, either. I miss you. But this is not going to work if I can’t trust you and if you lie to me.”

“My work-“

“Is as important to you as is mine to me. It takes up a lot of time, and in your case, secrecy. All I ask of you is not to take these secrets into our family. No secrets about Sherlock, John, yourself or anyone else important. Okay?”

He tries not to think about the fact that he just said _our family_ , and the way Mycroft’s eyebrows had quirked at that. He tries not to think of what he is asking of Mycroft. He tries not to think of how hurt he’d been before. He tries not to think of the possibility of Mycroft simply saying he can’t do it and kick him out. He tries not to think about that no matter how angry and hurt as he was – and is – _that_ would shatter him completely.

“We’ll just tell Anthea you listed her, too,” Mycroft says.

Time stands still for a moment.

Greg blinks. Mycroft smiles carefully. Greg reaches out. Mycroft takes the hand offered. “I promise. I promise you there won’t be any secrets in our private lives.”

“Our private lives?”

“ ’Our family’. Your words.”

“So... we keep this going?”

“If you allow me to, I would very much like that, yes.”

Greg doesn’t feel like he’s fully forgiven Mycroft (or Sherlock, for that matter). But right now, he feels like they can get there, together, if they work on it. (Especially Mycroft. Mycroft has a shitload of work to do to get back in his good books.) He also feels like kissing Mycroft might be a good idea.

And good ideas should always be executed.

%MCEPASTEBIN%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the chapter titles refer to Mycroft's points on his bucket list, we haven't actually talked about it in a while. We will, though - next chapter.  
> Thank you for your comments and kudos!  
> Love, Hanna


	9. Interlude 2: He Mele No Mycroft (A Song For Mycroft)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of Annie and the Hula.   
> Anthea is beheading My Little Ponys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read Cross Me Off Your Bucket List, you'll recognize certain scenes/chapters in this. It's probably more fun if you know what I'm talking about so I - very selflessly - suggest you read it if you want to ;)  
> I'm referring to the movie Lilo & Stitch at one point (which has always been one of my favourite movies EVER) and the song "Dress & Tie" by Charlene Kaye/Darren Criss at one point.  
> Oh, and I have no idea if axolotls make any sound at all.

**2 nd July 2012**

Greg is 100 percent sure the world has decided to fuck him sideways today and for the first time in his life, he considers becoming part of the other side of the law. There’s bloody murder on his mind.

And it’s not just the serial killer who has disembowelled four men so far and has announced another murder for today.

When Greg’s sister had called him four weeks earlier and asked him if he could take Annie for a week – the week of her birthday, nonetheless – because her husband and her would receive some sort of science award and would have to fly to the States, Greg had (obviously) said yes. Of course he would be busy with work during the day, but Annie went to school anyway and he had his mind set on finishing work early during that week so he would be able to spend time with her.

That was the _plan_.

Of course neither Stella nor Greg could have predicted the serial killer. Who started murdering on the first day of Annie’s mini-vacation with her Uncle Greg. There had been a victim every day so far, starting on Monday, and today, on the day before Annie’s birthday, there was supposed to be a fifth murder.

Of course Greg had immediately asked Sherlock for help – even if the self-proclaimed consulting detective still wasn’t exactly officially allowed (back) at the Yard. However, the Chief Superintendend was desperate enough, Sherlock’s name had long been cleared (courtesy of Mycroft) and Sherlock had managed to narrow down where the killer would be. So far, so good.

The only problem remaining _now_ is that Greg will have to spend the whole day on stake-out. Seeing as he is the DI, and all. (He meant to collect Annie from school, and have a nice day out, maybe even a late movie and then a sleep in the next day before properly celebrating her birthday with cake and all that jazz.)

When Mycroft calls around 10 am, well informed about the situation, Greg allows himself to vent a bit. “I will murder him. As soon as we arrest him, I will murder him.”

Mycroft makes something that could be interpreted as a laugh and a sound of sympathy at the same time. “Careful, my dear. Getting you out of prison might take a couple of hours and you’re missing time with your niece as it is.”

Greg sighs warily. “Annie would probably be delighted to see a real prison from the inside. She’d want me to stay in so she can visit.”

“Most likely,” Mycroft agrees, before adding in a soothing voice: “Now, when shall I pick her up? Providing, of course, you are fine with her spending a couple of hours with me and if that is in her mind, too?”

Greg is taken aback. “That’s- that’s not what I meant to say-“

“I know. But I’m offering nevertheless.”

There are literally one hundred reasons speaking against Mycroft’s offer. Greg can’t possibly accept this. “But- you’re busy. You have to rule the world.”

“Only a small part of it. And it’s safe to assume that part can manage without me for an afternoon.” Mycroft sounds very sure of himself.

“But-“

“Stop starting sentences with ‘but’. It’s repetitive and therefore dull. Anthea is planning as we speak. Now go and catch a murderer.”

“... Yes mum.”

“You don’t kiss your mother like you kiss me, I hope.” Greg can practically see the smirk on Mycroft’s face.

“There’s other things I plan for tonight that belong in that category,” he flirts back, dropping his voice.

Mycroft, who sounds like he’s already thinking of that, replies: “I look forward to that.” It sounds just a bit raspy.

Now, back to catching (and not murdering) a murderer.

X

Anthea has never actually seen Mycroft with a child until they pick up Annie Baker from her school at quarter to three in the afternoon. She is genuinely surprised that Mycroft asked her to come along, but she, too, is curious about Lestrade’s niece, and Mycroft thought it good for Annie to be another female around. Plus, maybe he’s a bit nervous. (Not that he says that. Anthea reads it in him tapping the tip of his umbrella on his way to the car.)

Annie looks a bit confused upon seeing Mycroft (Greg hasn’t told her he’s out to catch the Vauxhall Ripper, because that’s not for the ears of almost-9-year-olds) but gives him a gap-toothed smile anyway.

“Hello, Annie. I’m here to pick you up for now, because Gregory’s still working.”

“Hi Mycroft! Is Uncle Greg catching the killer from the papers?”

Mycroft, having grown up with Sherlock, doesn’t even think of questioning why Annie knows about that despite Gregory not talking to her about it, and Anthea watches in silent amusement.

“Yes. He will join us for dinner, though.”

“Cool!” Annie beams at him for a moment, obviously not at all worried about spending an afternoon with the man she’s never seen without a three-piece-suit, and then her eyes (brown like her Uncle’s, although hers are fawn coloured as opposed to Gregory’s chocolate) focus on Anthea in the background.

“Are you Mycroft’s ninja?”

Anthea decides she likes this little girl immensely. “Is that what your uncle calls me?”

“Yes. But he says- oh...” she blushes a faint pink and glances to an amused Mycroft. “He says not to call you that when Mycroft’s around.”

“I’m sure Mycroft will forget about it over ice cream.” Anthea winks at Annie before giving her boss a meaningful look. Really, the ice cream is more for Annie’s and her benefit, but she knows Mycroft won’t decline.

He gives her a look that might have been threatening if he wouldn’t be so enamoured with the little girl leaning against his side at the moment, completely trusting him because her uncle loves him and it doesn’t even come to her mind that he’s the most dangerous person in all of London. Anthea decides she will guard both of them with her life.

“Why not,” Mycroft says (and if he’s not picturing delicious coldness of ice-cream in his mind, Anthea will come to work in a pink tutu for the next week) and opens the door of the town car for Annie to climb in.

“Whose car is that?” someone asks from behind Annie and Gregory’s niece turns. Anthea notices her rolling her eyes quickly.

“Mycroft’s.” And, in an afterthought, she adds: “He’s my uncle’s boyfriend.”

The girl makes a face and you don’t have to be a genius to predict her reply. It comes just like Mycroft, Anthea (and probably Annie, too) have expected: “But boys are supposed to have girlfriends! It’s wrong with a boyfriend!”

Anthea knows Mycroft isn’t really bothered by this (as shocking as homophobic comments from a school girl are), but she dislikes immensely how Annie’s face falls. She steps into action.

“If you don’t keep your mean comments to yourself, Chantelle, I will find out where you live and cut off the heads of every single of your Ponys. Every. Single. Head.”

The girl’s – Chantelle’s – eyes widen in panic before she slowly backs away, rendered speechless.

“You. Are. Magic.” Is all Annie manages, looking at Anthea with much the same adoration she usually reserves for Mycroft and Greg and then Annie gets into the black town car without another word to the brat from her class and they go and have ice cream.

(Of course Anthea is about as magic as Mycroft, who knows she simply observed Chantelle (name tag and My Little Pony backpack), but he is rather glad Anthea did what she did.)

X

They catch the killer that day, but not before dinner time is long gone. Greg feels reasonably bad about missing the whole day with Annie and only Anthea’s occasional texts updating him on what they’re (Anthea is with them and while Greg wonders about that, they all seem to get along splendidly) up to.

**“That’s the first time I’ve seen Mycroft with a child. –A”**

**“We’re having ice cream. [Image sent] – A”**

**“This is better than Brazil. – A”**

(Greg is not sure he wants to know what has happened in Brazil.)

**“Mycroft knows the sound an axolotl makes. – A”**

(What the hell is an axolotl and do they make any sound?!)

When Greg finally arrives at his flat, he meets Anthea on her way out and although she doesn’t look up from her phone, he notices her small smirk and wishes her a good night. He finds his lover and his niece finishing up a card game at the kitchen table and Annie immediately gets up to hug him tightly (while Greg exchanges a tired, but grateful smile with Mycroft) before she exclaims:

“Mycroft is the coolest person on the planet!”

“I know. That’s why I like kissing him,” Greg teases and makes a point of, leaning over and smooching his (extremely disturbed) Mycroft on the cheek. (Usually, he’s not much for PDA, especially not in front of his niece, but if he can’t be the coolest person on the planet, this is what Annie gets.) Annie, predictably, makes a face and sticks out her tongue.

“Your uncle just caught a dangerous criminal,” Mycroft tells her, trying to make up for his beloved’s wounded ego and Greg, despite not being serious about sulking, preens at the gesture. Especially when Annie looks at him adoringly. However, the excitement over her uncle doesn’t last too long before she launches into a detailed report of what they did that day.

She doesn’t even interrupt her report while putting on her pyjama, brushing her teeth (and spraying both Greg and Mycroft with toothpaste in the process) and on her way to bed.

“Oh, and when Mycroft and Anthea came to pick me up, Anthea threatened to behead-“ Greg tries not to be shocked that Annie knows that word, blames Mycroft and Anthea for it and already wonders how he’s going to explain that to Stella, “-Chantelle’s Ponys if she wouldn’t stop saying mean things!” Annie jubilates.

Greg simply decides that in some twisted universe, that sentence probably makes sense and concentrates on something that’s far more worrying than beheaded Ponys. “What am I going to say if the school calls and asks why my boyfriend’s,” he uses the term purposely, “PA threatened a kid with beheading of her plastic figures?”

“You are going to tell them that there must be some sort of mistake because what kind of disturbed individual would threaten a small innocent child?” Mycroft provides helpfully and smiles.

Greg wants to tell him not to say that in front of Annie, but when he turns back to his niece, she’s out cold, still a smile on her face and one hand curled loosely around Greg’s hand.

The two men try to sneak out of the room silently, but when they’re at the door, Annie’s sleepy voice drifts over: “Can Mycroft be there for my birthday?”

Greg and Mycroft share a look, Mycroft almost wondrous, and then Greg tells her: “Yes, of course. Sweet dreams, bug.”

“Love you-“ a yawn interrupts her midsentence, and they almost miss the last word. “--- both...” And then she’s sound asleep again.

The two men retreat to Greg’s bedroom, where Greg proceeds to do exactly those things he promised Mycroft this morning and shows him just how grateful he is.

X

**Mid-September 2012**

“Your brother was being an insensitive prat today.”

Mycroft sighs deeply and watches Gregory, who’s making an annoyed face, with an apologetic expression. “What did he do?”

“He broke the ‘news’ of us to John.”

Now, of course anyone else would question why Gregory would be annoyed about that, or if he wanted to keep them a secret. However, Mycroft is not anyone and he knows his brother’s ways. Which is why his facial expression matches his lover’s perfectly now.

“And to think that I hoped his sodding list would help him... become better...” he says, more to himself. Of course, Gregory perks up.

“List?”

“My dear brother has recently re-discovered his bucket list – I believe after a case from the Yard?”

“Ah, yes. The murder that wasn’t a murder after all...” Gregory remembers.

“He made that list when he was 15 and I had high hopes that, with the help of John, he might... learn the one or the other thing about himself.”

“Is he-“

“Madly in love with Doctor Watson?” Mycroft looks dead serious. “Yes. I believe so.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing,” Gregory chides him lightly and intertwines their fingers over the table, careful not to knock over their glasses.

Mycroft thinks a moment about what he is going to say next and then decides that he might as well do it. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing. I just had high hopes that at least one of us could be successful at completing such a list. However, the positive effect on my brother is yet to show.” He knows the implications of his words, and that he has, yet again, handed over a useful piece of information to Gregory that could be used to destroy him.

His Gregory, though, handles it with as much passion and care as he handles everything else.

“I’m sure it’s going to be fine. He’s- no, _they’re_ going to be okay. But... what is this about one of you being successful with a bucket list? You have one, too?”

The second gravelly sigh of the evening escapes Mycroft, before he shuffles through a couple of folders on the table and picks up a folded piece of paper.

“I’ve never been successful with it.”

“Can I see?” Gregory, predictably, asks but adds: “You don’t have to show me, though.”

Which is the reason why Mycroft is never ever going to decline him anything and hands over the list. He’s not proud of it. There is not one point he has been able to follow. He’s failing. Constantly.

The DI asks about the every single point on the list, and Mycroft tells him how he has failed at every single one, but his wonderful Gregory simply kisses him and tells him: “No.”

“No?”

“No. You got me out of that,” he says with a cheeky grin and Mycroft can’t help but be amused.

“That is indeed true. Don’t think I regret it.”

“I know you don’t. And you’re not failing! Maybe you should think about word choice for some points-“ Mycroft knows Gregory refers to point seven and makes a point of kissing him thoroughly so he knows Mycroft doesn’t think he’s stupid, “-but other than that, you’re doing well!”

“I have never been able to protect Sherlock.” The mood dampens without Mycroft having intended it. Warm fingers on the back of his hand make a lot better, though.

“You are the one person who has always, always tried to protect Sherlock. Now he has John and me, too, but you’re the one who has been there for him his whole life. Your father hurt him, your mistake with Moriarty hurt him, but picture him without you for only one moment. He wouldn’t be the great man he is today.”

Mycroft is rendered speechless, which has only happened four times in his life so far (and two of the other times have included orgasms). If people think he is the genius in this relationship, they are wrong, because Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is bloody brilliant.

“I-“ What does one say in such a situation? Mycroft settles for the thing closest to expressing what he feels. “Thank you.” He thinks that maybe Lestrade understand what is going on. He is fantastic like that, after all.

His eyes fall on the list one last time. “However, I am _not_ a selfless person. There is simply no way you can convince me of that.” In an afterthought, he adds, with a wink: “I would love to see you try, though?”

From the way Gregory’s eyes glint, he is very much in favour of that train of thought. It is also natural for the DI to disagree with Mycroft (it is part of him like the impulse to breathe is and Mycroft cherishes the challenges that infuriating, cheeky Lestrade provides for him – if he thinks back to their first meeting all these years ago, he is awed about how much has changed. He remembers a younger him, clearly hating on Lestrade for arguing about every breath Mycroft took). “I remember someone leaving the world to itself for an afternoon to entertain an 8-year-old on the day before her birthday because her uncle was catching a murderer. I remember hundreds of occasions where you put everything aside for me. And for your brother, and occasionally for John. And Anthea. And Mrs. Hudson. You, Mycroft Holmes, do selfless things all the time.”

Mycroft’s heart is then pounding in his chest and he wonders if his inner turmoil shows on his face (it clearly doesn’t, he’s Mycroft Holmes, he’s almost always in perfect control). He wonders if this is too early. Or just the wrong situation. Or if it’s a good idea to basically present his still-beating heart on a plate and hope for the best.

But he’s with Gregory, his Gregory. So he replies: “And whatever gives you the impression I am being selfless? How selfless is it, when I’m doing these things for you because I love you and I loathe the thought of you being unhappy for just a single moment?”

Gregory looks at him with his chocolate eyes, pupils wide and his face frozen in an expression close to Annie’s when she talks about Hawaii. Or to Sherlock’s, when he sees a homicide. (Or to John Watson’s, when he looks at Sherlock.)

“ _You_ are a _romantic_ at heart.” 

Mycroft smiles. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t. I can show off with my badass, sneaky, intelligent and sexy king-of-the-world and know that when he’s done ruling, he comes home and tells me he loves me.”

“And what would you reply to that?”

Gregory gives him the wonderful lopsided grin that sends Mycroft’s heart into a leap (which is anatomically impossible but since it’s happening right now, he should probably see a professional about it) and tells him: “That I loved him, too, of course. Also, that his arse looks ridiculously good in these trousers and that I would like it very much to be closer to me about right now.”

X

**End of September 2012**

The Love Squad meets at Angelo’s. Squirrel-like Molly Hooper from the morgue, Anthea of course (because Mycroft is never attending meetings without her and while she has an ongoing love-hate-relationship with the younger Holmes, she knows how important this is to her boss and decides to help out), Mrs. Hudson who treats the whole things as one of her beloved rom-coms, Angelo who wants nothing more than the well-being of his favourite customer (and probably because the need for _amore_ about which he likes to sing best in the kitchen plays into that) and of course his _boyfriend_ (Anthea and Lestrade have a great time referring to Mycroft as that, mainly because they know he thinks it’s childish but has no better suggestion as to what term to use as of yet).

Oh, and then there’s _her_. The Woman. The woman. (To whom Mycroft most certainly did not refer in a capitalized way just now.)

And in retrospect, Mycroft did most certainly not refer to the Love Squad by its ridiculous name.

X

**October 2012**

**“Just won 20 quid. Oh, and I think Sherlock gave me his blessing with you. – G”**

**“I shall have your wedding dress tailored then. – M”**

**“I’ll wear that dress if you wear the tie and baby we'll dance through the night. – G”**

X

While Mycroft never says so, Greg knows that the fact that – in his mind – he’s been failing at his bucket list-of-sorts so far is not something he takes lightly, especially now that Sherlock works his way through his and is successful. (Greg thinks the reason for the self-loathing is a mix between sibling rivalry and the fact that Mycroft is almost never bad at anything, really.)

Which is why one rainy afternoon, he collects Annie, and they put something on a DVD for Mycroft. Then they task Anthea to deliver it. She agrees without a complaint, especially since she’s been with them to help them record in her rare free time.

X

_“Right, okay. Hey, love.” Greg smiles, and Annie pokes her head into the frame, smiling, and calls: “Hey!”_

_“Bug, move to the side so he can see-“ Greg gestures for his niece, whose head disappears from the screen again. “Anyway. We thought about something that might cheer you up a bit-“_

_“-because Uncle Greg says you think you’re bad a things, which you aren’t cuz you’re awesome!” Annie helpfully provides from off-screen and Greg smiles into her direction, before gazing back into the camera. “What she said.” He winks. “So... sit back and enjoy. Because this song is for you.” In an afterthought, he adds: “If this ever sees the light of day again, I will have to arrest you, though.”_

_The camera zooms back a bit, and more of Gregory’s flat comes into the picture, but Mycroft is completely wrapped up in what happens on screen now. Because his perfect, wonderful Gregory starts banging on a small drum and then Annie moves into the picture, singing and... dancing a Hula._

Mycroft recognizes the song, and the dance. It’s from a children’s movie, Annie’s favourite. But the fact that Gregory and she went through this trouble for him... he is very nearly moved.

Gregory looks familiar with the small drum, but Mycroft is fairly certain he couldn’t play it before which means he has taken lessons. For him.

There has never been a man more in love at that very moment than Mycroft is, and when Gregory and his niece come to an end in the video, they both grin happily into the camera before the screen goes dark.

They played a song for him.

A song for Mycroft.

And Mycroft is so very in love.


	10. Sherlock Finishes What He's Started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wraps up the last bits of his bucket list.  
> John is totally in love.  
> So are Greg and Mycroft (between worrying and saving Johnlock's sorry arses.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this most likely makes absolutely no sense at all if you haven't read "Cross Me Off..."   
> I'd say I'm sorry, but the two stories were always meant to be complementing each other.  
> In this chapter, Sherlock finishes his list, and in the next chapter Mycroft will finish his. Or fail. You know, whatever.
> 
> Thank you for your kudos and comments!

**October 2012**

Greg watches grimly how yet another traffic light turns green in front of his eyes and he speeds up a bit, the force of it pressing himself, Mycroft in the passenger seat and Anthea in the backseat into their seats a bit more.

Mycroft is white as a sheet (even more so than usual) and his lips are a grim line, but other than that, nothing in his face shows the concern waltzing through his mind. Although, given the speed with which he thinks, it’s more of a quickstep than a waltz.

Anthea, in the back, is furiously typing on a small notebook on her lap and her phone in turns – most likely she’s the reason for all the green lights.

And Greg – Greg speeds through the country, as fast as he can without crashing the car, because he can’t get them all killed and leave the world with no Holmes at all-

Right. Wrong track of thoughts. Sherlock is probably still alive. So is John. Keep thinking positive.

**“John in danger. Going in. Send back-up to factory. –SH”**

Greg still sees the text in front of his eyes and it was sheer luck that he had still been at the Yard and about to leave when he received it. He had thrown together a team within minutes and phoned ahead to the local police station to send back-up, too (although they only have two officers available who are both finished for the day already and the secretary wasn’t sure if she could get them to come back in), and then was joined by Mycroft and Anthea (who had their own squad trailing behind them) before going for a Grand Theft Auto like drive out of London.

Of course you have to give Sherlock credit for even texting, but when he’s requesting back-up, the situation has to be serious. He never requests back-up after all and rather shouts at the back-up when it arrives for being too slow.

So Greg has only one ambition right now: Not to be too slow.

However, if Sherlock is there (and alive enough) to shout at him for being too slow, he’ll gladly be shouted at.

“ETA seven minutes,” Anthea says tensely from behind and Greg glances to Mycroft and gives him a grim smile before making the most of being part of the police force and breaking every single speed limit.

“We’ll be there in six.”

X

“GO GO GO, FIND THEM! SPREAD OUT, COME ON, GET GOING!” Gregory shouts and Mycroft, who has never once prayed in his life because he doesn’t believe in any God, prays to whoever might listen that they’re not too late.

Then there’s commotion from deep within the factory and Mycroft, who, besides not praying also doesn’t run – usually – pushes his body to its limits while he rushes through the factory towards the noise.

He arrives there just in time to see a completely soaked Sherlock and John gasping for breath, drenched in coolant and looking for all the world like two people who almost died seconds ago.

Gregory is kneeling next to them, propping up Sherlock who bleeds furiously from a wound at the back of his head and has bloody wrists, too. He still looks better than John, though.

John, who proceeds to empty his stomach right in front of Mycroft’s shoes.

Mycroft has never been so happy to see someone throw up.

X

Three days after the factory, Mycroft and Gregory sit in the small library of the townhouse (as opposed to the big library at the estate on the outskirts of London), both enjoying a quiet night reading after three days of cleaning up after Sherlock, John and their capturer. Mycroft hasn’t slept since and while Gregory doesn’t comment on it, the politician notices the worried glances his DI sends over every once in a while.

Mycroft’s mobile phone interrupts the quiet and Gregory picks it up from where it’s lying on a small coffee table next to him. “It’s Sherlock.”

“He can’t be drowning _again_ ,” Mycroft says drily, but holds out his hand for the phone anyway.

Gregory passes it and, when Mycroft holds it to his ear with his other hand, laces their fingers together. “Be nice.”

“I always am.” He answers. “Yes?”

Sherlock’s raspy voice comes from the speaker. “I need your... assistance, brother.” Apparently the coolant didn’t just affect his vocal chords. Mycroft can’t remember the last time Sherlock has asked him for help. Maybe he needs a CAT scan. "Don't think I would call if I had other options." Ah, yes. That sounds more like his brother.

"Always glad to be of help," Mycroft replies sarcastically.

"I don't need _help_." Sherlock’s voice squeaks a bit from his attempt to sound appalled. Mycroft grins and Greg watches in amusement, sitting up straighter and pulling at his arm until he turns and leans back.

"Assistance," Mycroft concedes.

Sherlock snorts, then continues. "Do you love Lestrade?"

"I don't see how this is any of your business. Surely that's not the reason for why you called."

" 'Caring is not an advantage' – I'm quoting you here, once. Why did you decide against your own wisdom all of the sudden?"

"I did not, brother dear. I still believe it not to be an advantage, but it is also no disadvantage."

Gregory starts humming ‘All You Need Is Love’ in the background, which is slightly distracting. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Cryptic doesn't suit you, Mycroft." Sherlock sounds annoyed. (Basically like always then.)

"Obvious doesn't suit _you_. You very well know how strong a bond of… affection can be, to what it can drive people. Need I remind you of Miss Adler? Well, now imagine this bond _between_ two people, _reciprocated_. Imagine the lengths they would go for each other."

Mycroft’s head is turned halfway, so he can see Gregory mouthing an ‘aww’ at him. He quickly scribbles on a piece of paper: _Do not ‘aww’ me, my dear._

"It makes people vulnerable," Sherlock replies flatly, on the other end of the line, oblivious to what is going on on Mycroft’s side. However, Mycroft is not as distracted as it might sound, because he knows how rare it is for Sherlock to come to him and he doesn’t want to mess this up.

He tries to be as honest as he can. "It is worth it. And you know that."

Sherlock abruptly shuts off his phone and Mycroft knows he’s going to think. Mycroft, instead, is going to snog the very attractive man currently rubbing his shoulders.

Good plans for both Holmeses.

X

Greg – still jubilant because he just knows he’s winning the pool and he can almost smell the grand waiting for him – hides in the kitchen with Irene Adler and Angelo. He’s not sure if it speaks in his favour that that’s not even the weirdest thing he’s ever done.

Every once in a while, the Love Squad group chat chimes with a new message and as strange it is to play matchmaker for two grown up men (well, one grown up man and a man-child), Angelo and Irene are surprisingly good company. So is the bottle of nice red Angelo provides.

When John and Sherlock leave Angelo’s, the Squad parts, too, and Greg picks up Mycroft’s pasta and lets fate give John and Sherlock the last push.

X

[Love Squad group chat]

**“Sherlock has been riding the tube all day. – A”**

**“He’s on his way to the morgue now. – A”**

**“Do you people at least pretend to work? – GL”**

**“Sherlock has just walked in. He’s brooding, I think :( - Molly”**

**“We’re very good at pretending. – A”**

**“That, I can confirm. – IA”**

**“Miss Adler, shouldn’t you be dead? Or at least abroad? – UNKNOWN NUMBER”**

**“Mycroft, always taking the fun out of things! – IA”**

**“If anyone’s interested, I’m actually trying to work here. – GL”**

**“Sherlock stopped working! He’s texting! – Molly”**

…

**“Dr. Watson is on his way. – A”**

…

**“Sherlock just said he and John are together… I think? – Molly”**

…

**“Sherlock in love is terrifying, but he did just solve another murder. – GL”**

X

**Christmas 2012**

A quite fatal train journey and two sulking Holmes brothers later, Greg finds himself facing Mummy Holmes – not for the first time, mind you, but for the first time as Mycroft’s… well, Gregory.

It’s between tea and dinner time, and Cassiopeia has proven to be exceptionally agile for a woman her age (whatever it might be!), cornering Greg easily. Well, it’s all very civil on the surface, of course. No actual, literal cornering. But Greg has been a cop for long enough to know when he’s being cornered.

“Mycroft is not on a diet anymore,” she remarks, Sherlock’s eyes piercing into Greg’s. Honestly, it’s like talking to a female, socially-acceptable Sherlock Holmes. Strange.

“He looks fine,” Greg says with a small smile and the underlying implication of ‘Don’t you dare say anything of the opposite to him, please’. He likes Cassiopeia, but he loves Mycroft. He will defend him whenever it’s necessary.

“I wanted to say the same thing,” she replies with a smirk and Greg has the decency to blush.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright. Good to hear you say that. Wouldn’t do him good to have someone criticizing him for trivial things like that.”

Greg has the distinct feeling that if Mummy Holmes had thought him inadequate for her older son, he would’ve felt the effects of her distaste earlier.

Her thoughts seem to wander to something else entirely then. “He calls you Gregory.”

 _He calls me_ his Gregory _,_ Greg thinks, feeling the warmth spread in his stomach. “Yes, ma’am. Most people stick with Greg. He’s really the only one to use the full form.”

“No point in using an abbreviation if there is a perfectly fine complete form of something,” she agrees with the track of thought of Mycroft, but then she focuses back on Greg: “What would you prefer I called you?”

“Whatever suits you best, ma’am,” Greg replies politely.

An amused smile appears on her face. “Then I shall call you ‘son’.” And, while Greg is still a bit dumbstruck (and hopes he doesn’t look it – too much –) she adds: “And enough with the ‘ma’am’. I feel like an old lady. My name is Cassiopeia and you might as well use it.”

Greg flashes her his widest grin. “Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

“Well, you and Doctor Watson mean a lot to my boys. You are family, and you’ll find that Holmeses don’t even let death stop them from protecting what’s theirs.”

“I know,” Greg says, and means it. Then he kisses the woman who has taken to John and him as their sons because they happened to fall in love with the most brilliant minds on the planet on the cheek and excuses himself to find John and maybe sneak a bit of quality time with Mycroft before the official Christmas dinner starts.

X

“Ready for bed, love?” Greg asks, looking up from his chair and resting his hand on Mycroft’s lower back when his Holmes comes back from a quiet moment with Sherlock at the fire.

He doesn’t ask what they have been talking about. Maybe Mycroft will tell him later. Maybe he won’t. It’s just that this has been the first quiet moment with the two brothers and Greg has watched Mummy Holmes taking a picture to treasure that moment for eternity.

“Very much so, yes,” Mycroft replies and underneath his calm and relaxed exterior, Greg knows the exhaustion sits deep inside his bones. The past days have been crazy, trying to get everything done before they left for the Manor.

So they excuse themselves and slowly wander the hallways back to their room.

“It’s nice that you invited the Sq- the others tonight,” Greg tells Mycroft while they both undress.

“It is a rather pleasant way to spend this holiday. And I believe you can consider them family.”

“Your mum said that Holmeses always look out for each other and for what’s theirs. You’ll be busy now, I image,” Greg teases lightly and Mycroft smirks before kissing him.

“You can look after yourself, as can Anthea and – at times – Sherlock and John. Four people less to worry about.”

“Except that you worry constantly.”

“Of course I do,” Mycroft gives in, smiling. “Don’t you?”

“Nah.” Greg grins while Mycroft is intrigued, curious of what will follow that statement. “You see, I know this man – ridiculously handsome and a touch Batman…” Greg teases and slowly makes his way over to the bed, closely followed by Mycroft who tries to hold back his amusement in favour of quirking an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes. He has everything under control. Of course he’s busy, but that’s because he has to rule the world. And he keeps me satisfied with an amazing bottle of Scotch and… physical favours.” Wriggling his eyebrows in the most absurd way, Greg throws himself on the bed, grinning cheekily.

Mycroft accepts the challenge and slowly crawls up, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Well, let’s see if I can do better than that.”

 


	11. Spend More Time With Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock spend some quality time together.  
> Something explodes.

* * *

**“I know there's no need for me to panic**

**'cause I'll find him, I'll find him next to me.”**

**(Next To Me – Emeli Sande)**

* * *

**23 rd October 2013**

**12:36 pm**

It’s October, almost a year later, and despite the bets of idiots at the Yard, Sherlock and John are still peaceful (well, at least as peaceful as it gets in 221B Baker Street) and Lestrade and Mycroft, too, seem finally past that stage where faked deaths, state secrets and divorces turn their life together in a complicated mess.

However, with two Holmeses, life never gets truly peaceful, as the two brothers find out on a bleak, rainy day about a week from Halloween.

Mycroft has tried (in vain) to convince Sherlock to take a case for Queen and country (or, as it’s more of an American thing, maybe for eagle and freedom) and Sherlock has tried (in vain) to get rid of his extremely persistent brother. The whole situation (that involves a lot of scowling, a wordy battle in about five languages and a torturous session on the violin) is not made easier by the carpenters that work in the hallway of 221 Baker Street and make thinking almost impossible above all the noise.

At some point, a tray with tea and jammie dodgers has appeared – probably courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, who thinks world wars can be solved by a nice cuppa – and now the brothers sit, facing each other, sipping tea and trying to murder each other with glares.

It’s not effective so far.

About halfway through his cup of tea, Mycroft notices something a bit unsettling. It takes him a moment to put his finger on what it is, but when he does, he can barely hold back an exasperated sigh.

“Drugging my tea, Sherlock? Really?” Mycroft tries scowling but finds his face hard to move. “I thought you had moved past that childish stage.” _Oh, great. He’s starting to slur._

Sherlock gives him a strange look, but it’s hard to concentrate by now. Whatever it is, it’s working fast. “As much as I enjoy doing that, I didn’t actually do it this time.” His speech is clearer than Mycroft’s, but his pupils are dilated and he eyes his own cup of tea interestedly. “It seems we have been drugged. Of course I’m feeling it only just now, what with the drugs and everything-“

Now his speech gets more imprecise, too, while Mycroft has a hard time keeping his eyes open. His hands are too uncoordinated by now to get to his phone and there are heavy footsteps in the hallway outside of 221B.

“The carpenters.”

“Of course,” Sherlock tries to bite out, but he’s rapidly spiralling towards darkness, now faster than Mycroft thanks to his lesser body weight and it sounds weak.

“Just… wonderful…” is the last comment Mycroft manages before darkness swallows him up completely. Sherlock topples over in his chair.

X

**3:58 pm**

“Hey Greg, it’s John.”

Greg is pleasantly surprised. “Hi! I just meant to call you – murder at Thames House. It’s Dimmock’s case, but I thought Sherlock might be interested, there’s-“

“Wait, so he’s not with you?”

“Uh, no, he isn’t?”

“Crap…” John sounds a mix between worried and resigned.

“Why? Has something happened?”

John sighs. “Not sure. Mycroft came by earlier and pestered him about a case, but when they started yelling at each other in Portuguese, I went out to get some fresh air. When I came back, they were both gone.”

Ah yes, Mycroft mentioned something about a case earlier. “Maybe Mycroft convinced him to take the case?”

“Yeah, but he usually doesn’t go without me. Especially not with Mycroft - no offense.”

Greg takes none, mainly because he starts worrying now, too. “Mh. Maybe he just went to the morgue or something?”

John sounds not convinced at all. “Thing is… he got better with leaving notes and stuff. You know, so I know where he is. Besides, I called Molly already.”

“I’ll call Mycroft and see if he knows where Sherlock is. I’ll get back to you in a moment.”

“Great, thanks. I don’t mean to be over-protective, but…”

“No, yeah, I get it. Gimme a couple of minutes.”

Greg hangs up and cocks his head, thinking of any other place Sherlock could be. It is a bit odd for him to simply leave John behind – especially since the Fall – and Greg meant to call Mycroft anyway about dinner tonight.

He listens to the telephone ring for a little while and almost decides to hang up and call Anthea instead – if Mycroft doesn’t answer, he is probably busy and has his phone silent – when his lover _does_ pick up.

X

**A couple of minutes earlier**

“This is all your fault,” Sherlock mumbles groggily when Mycroft blinks his eyes open and feels just like his brother sounds.

He doesn’t reply yet but instead tries to put together what exactly it is that is his fault.

Being kidnapped, obviously. Being tied to chairs next to each other but still with enough distance between them that they can’t try and untie themselves. A room with a single, high window and a naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. A table, in the far corner, covered with everything that has been in their pockets.

Mycroft tries moving carefully, but the chair to which he’s tied is screwed to the floor and won’t budge. The knots are professional and impossible to untie, too. All in all, he’s pretty well secured. As is Sherlock.

“We have been wrapped up in carpets, for God’s sake,” Sherlock complains and yes, thank you, Mycroft can see that (and he doesn’t need the tell-tale signs on his or Sherlock’s clothes!) – the carpets are still in a heap in one corner of the room.

“Points for creativity, I suppose,” Mycroft replies and before Sherlock can say something hateful back, they hear steps and the door opens to reveal two of the fake-carpenters.

They look like gorillas, big, bulky, a bit hairy all over – and are distinguishable by a scar on the cheek and a bald head respectively. Honestly, the man has more hair on his body than on his head.

“They’re awake,” scar-gorilla says, unnecessarily, to his companion.

“I can see that,” bald-gorilla, unnecessarily, replies.

They speak with a thick cockney accent, and Mycroft, as Sherlock, files that information away. Oh, and on second thoughts, the wired vests they’re wearing are a bit off a remarkable thing, too. Mycroft wonders briefly if Sherlock is reminded of the pool-incident years back (and going by Sherlock’s look, he probably does. Of course he couldn’t care less if those two would blow up, but he’d rather not have them do that in the vicinity of them.)

“Do you want the contact number for kidnappings? It would spare us a lot of time,” Mycroft addresses them as careful yet condescending, as possible. (He knows he has to be careful since he has no idea who they are or what they want, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to give off the impression of being weak. Tactics, really.) It will be over sooner rather than later if they call the number and alert the right person of Mycroft’s whereabouts. Money is no problem. He’ll get it back eventually.

“Shut up. We don’t want no money!” Scar-gorilla barks and shows off a couple of extremely yellow teeth when he grins. “You’re going to stay with us forever.”

Mycroft has the distinct feeling that ‘forever’ might just be not as long as he’d like it to be.

Sherlock scowls at them, but they are not exactly impressed and start to ruffle through the Holmes’ belongings on the table. Mycroft is reminded of two boars snuffling around the forest.

Then Mycroft’s phone starts to ring on the table where their kidnappers have placed it together with everything else the Holmes brothers have had in their pockets.

“Caller ID says ‘G’,” says scar-gorilla.

Bald-gorilla shrugs. “Let it ring.”

Mycroft of course isn’t stupid enough to have full names on this very important phone. Which now, as so often, turns out to be a great advantage. Sherlock seems to think the same thing, because under all his superficial scowling, he gives Mycroft a meaningful look. He _is_ thinking the same thing.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he carefully interrupts the (no-doubt deep) thoughts of their capturers. They turn, and Mycroft is once again reminded of two boars. “If I don’t answer this phone, people will get worried and start to trace the call, as opposed to if I answer. Then, no one will worry and no SWAT team will shoot you in the head before you can say ‘Autothaumaturgist‘.“

“Careful, Max,” bald-gorilla (who clearly is the smarter one of the two of them) says. “Why would he help us?”

“Because, as opposed to you two, he’s not quite as stupid and would, much like me, get out of this alive. Which would be made impossible if someone shot you and, in this environment, the bullets would ricochet and hit – if I’m lucky – just him, or, in the worst case, both of us. Not to mention the bombs you’re wearing,” Sherlock helpfully provides and Mycroft needs a lot of strength not to roll his eyes.

However, the words seem to seep into the brains of their gorillas and one of them shoves the phone to Mycroft’s ear while the other one holds a gun to his temple. “One word about where you are or that anything is wrong and we will shoot you.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft replies drily before bold-gorilla accepts the call for him.

X

“Hey lo-“

“Hello, Greg. It’s fortunate of you to call,” Mycroft says without preamble and Greg furrows his brows. Mycroft hates it to interrupt people mid-sentence (apart from if they are being stupid, obviously). Also: Greg? Seriously?

“It is?” he asks carefully, unsure of where this is going.

“Yes. Would you please tell Anthea that I’m very sorry I can’t make it to dinner and that I love her? It’s just that I’m very busy at the moment.”

“I- of course. We will... talk another time then.”

“Thank you, Greg.”

“You’re welcome. Bye.”

Greg hangs up and then tries to just breathe for a moment. There is something gravelly wrong with Mycroft. He has never heard him call him Greg ever before and then there is the fact of what he told him to tell Anthea, of course. And now that he thinks about it, it sounded distinctly as if Mycroft has been on speaker – another thing Greg has never seen or heard him do before.

He dials Anthea’s number quickly – it is, for him, faster than texting – and she answers immediately, clearly disturbed by the fact that he is calling.

“What’s happened?”

“I think something is wrong with Mycroft. I just called him and he called me Greg, interrupted me mid-sentence and told me to tell you he can’t make it to dinner and that he loves you. Also, I think he was on speaker.”

“Right, thank you,” Anthea says crisply. “Go home, stay where you are and talk to no-one.”

Greg rolls his eyes (a habit he has picked up from Mycroft). “Right.”

She sighs. “You’re getting in your car, aren’t you?”

“Just stopping at Baker Street to get John. Sherlock’s gone, too, and I think they might be together.”

“Come to the office,” she orders and disconnects and Greg grabs for his jacket, gun and badge and calls John while he runs through the hallways of NSY, making his way outside.

“Yes?”

“Put on shoes and grab the gun I don’t know anything about. I’ll be at Baker Street in ten.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

X

**4:26 pm**

“Don’t I get to call my girlfriend to let her know I’ll miss dinner, too?” Sherlock asks, glaring at the gorilla closer to him.

“We know you’re a poof and fucking that doctor,” bald-gorilla says triumphantly. “He’s not even that smart,” he then calls over to scar-gorilla and they both laugh, clearly joyous about seeing through Sherlock’s deception.

“Then you also know he’s going to shoot you both when he sees that you hit me,” Sherlock hisses angrily. The gorillas are not exactly impressed, though, and scar-gorilla reaches out to backhand Sherlock, sending his head flying to the side and a spray of blood coming out of his nose instantly.

“Might as well give him a reason then,” he growls and lands another hit on Sherlock’s chest that drives the air out of his lungs in a huff. Mycroft doesn’t let his face betray him and show the helplessness he feels when he watches his little brother being abused, but he swears himself that as soon as he gets free, these two wanna-be-humans will never see the light of day again.

Of course, Anthea will by now be alarmed and hopefully tracing his phone, but Sherlock has unfortunately been right about one thing – there is no chance that snipers might get them out of this room by shooting their capturers because of the ricocheting bullets and the bombs strapped to them, and if they hear shots outside the door, they are, without doubt, going to shoot their hostages. Or blow everything up. Either way, the result will be two Holmeses less in the United Kingdom.

“Gentlemen,” he tries to pry their attention away from Sherlock. “Might I enquire who you are working for?”

“No, he said not to talk to you-“

“Shut up, Max,” bald-gorilla tells his scar-faced partner.

“Sorry, Wayne,” scar-face says and sends Mycroft a hateful look as if to give him the fault for asking him a question in the first-place. Wayne joins him in his staring, but at least they have turned their attention away from Sherlock and Mycroft can breathe a bit more freely now.

And, anyway, they have given him the final clue he needs to piece together what’s going on.

The fact that it’s a male who has ordered them to kidnap the Holmeses and the fact that they’re not held to ransom can only mean that it’s the American business tycoon whom Mycroft had suspected of foul play in negotiations for a contract with the UK. That’s what he wanted Sherlock to investigate. So now, apparently, said business man has taken to simply keeping Mycroft and Sherlock under lock and key until the negotiations are over and then finishing them off. Since they have been taken a couple of days before the final decision, no one is going to suspect a connection to him and when they finally turn up dead, it’s one of this tragic stories of life that keep the tabloids busy for a couple of days.

The most annoying thing is not even the kidnapping or the mistreatment. It’s the fact that it’s so incredible _simple_ that neither of the Holmes brothers had noticed something had been wrong until they both had ended up drugged.

“You- _ah-_ you should have realized America is doing you no good after they invented McDonald’s,” Sherlock, having figured it out, too, tells him between wheezing breaths and sniffling from his bloody nose.

Mycroft makes a face at him.

X

**4:37 pm**

“Where have your people been?!”

“Doing our jobs, Doctor Watson,” Anthea replies calmly. John is not so calm. Seething is a better description.

“I thought you never let Mycroft out of sight!” he argues back and Anthea does an admirable job of not rolling her eyes.

“We follow Mr. Holmes’ orders. And his orders have been to leave him alone with his brother because he knew how... arduous discussions with his brother can be and how long they can take.”

“He is bugged, though, right? We can just trace him?” Greg interjects before John (worrying about Sherlock and possibly Mycroft) can keep on arguing with Mycroft’s PA. Who also worries. Quite a lot. Just like Greg.

“Even better. We can follow their route with the help of the CCTV cameras,” she replies and with a few clicks on her laptop, windows with a feed of the London streets pop up. When the three of them watch what was going on on the curb of Baker Street a couple of hours ago, it takes every ounce of willpower to keep them from gaping. Because the plan is so... simple.

They watch how the carpenters – who are not carpenters at all carry out tools, two bags of garbage and... two rolled up carpets.

Really long, really heavy carpets (from the way the two fake-carpenters seem to struggle with them).

“And no one wondered why carpenters carried away two massive carpets?” Greg asks disbelieving.

“Probably not. Mrs. Hudson is good at convincing people to help her carry stuff she doesn’t want anymore. Everybody watching probably thought she had convinced them to take the carpets away for disposal,” John replies drily.

“Mycroft is going to be furious,” the DI mumbles, already imagining it. Rolled up in a carpet and carried away. How humiliating.

Anthea seems to think the same thing. She’s obviously not gnawing her lips or anything so obvious, but the fact that she looks a lot paler than usual and her fingers are tense while typing give away her worry, at least to Greg. John is still too furious to notice much.

“We followed the van to this empty building-“ Anthea shows them a house on Google maps. “-but the fact that they’re not even hiding is not a good sign.”

“They don’t want money then. They don’t care what happens to them,” John says grimly.

“Then why go through the trouble of kidnapping them in the first place?” Greg asks.

“No idea. But we need to do something. Quickly.” John looks at Anthea. “Send in a team now. I don’t care what happens to the carpenters. We need to get Sherlock and Mycroft out.”

“It’s complicated. We checked the houses structure. If we shoot, the bullets will most likely ricochet. We can’t storm the house. We’ll send specialists in to retrieve them. I’ll go.” Anthe states matter-of-factly.

“Then I’ll go, too,” John immediately counters and the two of them have a bit of a stare-off.

“You’re not trained to do that.”

“I was in the army.”

“Years ago.”

“I’m running after Sherlock every single day.”

“You’ll compromise the mission.”

“I-“

“Hey!” Greg interrupts the two and they stare at him, John with the dangerous calm look on his face he usually has moments before tackling people to the ground because they dared to touch Sherlock, Anthea with a look that says ‘I will skin you’. “I’m a copper, so I’m going in. Anthea is trained, so she goes in. You stay in the background and we’ll call you when we need you.”

“Greg-“

“No. I will arrest you if you fight me on this. It’s hard enough to get two civilians out there, I don’t fucking care for another one I have to look out for.”

“I can’t believe you!” John is so shocked he even forgets to be angry for a couple of seconds.

“Yes, well, start to! Now, let’s go. We have Holmeses to save.”

Greg knows John is close to strangling him, and he’ll hold a grudge forever. But it’s absolutely true – if something happens in that house and he’ll have to take care of not only two kidnapped Holmes brothers but also John Watson, he’ll go crazy. He knows what John can do. He knows John wants to get to Sherlock with every fibre of his being.

But he’s not going to be responsible for a dead John Watson if they find Sherlock and John is killed in the process.

X

**6:01 pm**

“I am not playing another round of ‘I Spy’,” Sherlock announces and Mycroft silently agrees before they move on to riddles.

Half an hour later, Sherlock declares that riddles are below his dignity and Mycroft, for the first time since they have been captured, smiles. It annoys Sherlock to no end, of course, but that doesn’t stop the older Holmes.

“It’s about time John rescued me anyway,” Sherlock states in an attempt to take the wind out of his brother’s sail, but Mycroft grins even wider.

“So you consider yourself a damsel in distress?”

“That is his perception of me,” Sherlock replies in a hateful tone and adds spiteful: “You’re just jealous because your half-wit of a detective probably hasn’t even noticed you’re not around, which, personally I think is a big accomplishment seeing as you are really hard to overlook with all the unnecessary weight you’re carrying around.”

“My ‘half-wit’ grants you employment,” Mycroft reminds him gently. “And I would – as would he – prefer if you used his name. After all, I don’t call you monkeyface, do I?”

 _“I told our housekeeper to stop calling me that as soon as I started talking!”_ An indignant shade of red colours Sherlock’s cheeks under the blood and Mycroft feels accomplished. He knew bringing up baby Sherlock’s nickname until he was about five would be wonderful. Well, for him.

Before they can continue their bickering, thought, something is going on in front of their door. Their two gorillas start shouting and then there’s two shots.

X

**6:27 pm**

John sends them death glares, but obediently stays at the back door of the building, hidden in shadows, his gun ready.

Greg and Anthea move into the abandoned house silently. Body heat scanning proves there are only four bodies in the building – two stationary, so most likely not-dead Sherlock and Mycroft.

 _Downstairs,_ Anthea mouths, and Greg nods. They take the steps carefully, overly aware of every creak the house makes, but when they glance around the corner of the staircase, they immediately see the problem. If they shoot and miss, the bullets will ricochet and probably hit the carpenters. Or not. And if they shoot and the bullets go through, same thing.

Also, they both wear vests with wires coming out.

Fucking wonderful.

Greg mimes a headshot, and Anthea nods. Which doesn’t mean he’s any more comfortable with doing it. Anthea probably can. And he’s not a bad shot either. It’s just-

Suddenly the two men start shouting, and Anthea moves without missing a beat.

A shot rings and is quickly followed by another one, coming from Anthea’s gun.

Greg sees the blood coming out from the two men heads, sees them sway and then he moves without second thought. He rushes over and grabs them before they collapse on the ground, holding them up in a steel grip.

He has no idea if falling on them will trigger the bombs but he’s not going to risk it. He struggles a bit with the weight of the two, but then John is there and quickly, mechanically strips one guy of his explosive outfit, while Anthea does the same to the other guy.

Only when the vests are safely removed, Greg lets the men drop to the ground.

He glares at John. “That was incredibly stupid. I could bloody kill you.”

“I’d rather you don’t,” Sherlock’s voice comes from behind the locked steel door. “He’s good at making tea without drugs.”

“Can’t say that about him,” John mutters while he unlocks the door with the keys he found in the pocket of the scar-face. The smile that breaks free on his face when he sees Sherlock, though, betrays his words. His face falls immediately after that when he sees the blood on his face.

While John checks Sherlock systematically for any permanent damage while taller man is still fixed to the chair and can’t escape (Greg applauds the smart move mentally) Mycroft’s own rescue team moves to untie him.

“You alright?” Greg asks, watching the tenderly moving man closely. Anthea does the same thing, although she checks for injuries rather than trying to read the answer in Mycroft’s eyes.

His eyes say “I will be. I’m glad you’re here. They hit Sherlock. They will pay for it.” His mouth says: “I’m fine.”

Then the beeping starts.

Anthea is the quickest of them all and comes back from the hallway with a look close to worry. “Timer. One Minute.”

“So there’s someone else sitting at the trigger in case they messed up,” Greg mutters and ignores the urge to kick something.

“Of course there is! You do realize these two are not criminal masterminds?” Sherlock asks drily, while the beeping gets louder.

“And yet they managed to drug you,” John bites back, cutting through the ropes around Sherlock rapidly.

“ _And_ Mycroft,” the consulting detective points out sulkily.

“I suggest we depart. Quickly,” Mycroft interrupts and with the sound of the beeps that become faster and louder by the seconds, they hurry up the stairs as fast as possible with two stiff, hurting Holmes brothers. They barely make it out of the door and a couple of metres away before the sound of an explosion rips through the air, the house starts collapsing while a fireball lights it up like a Christmas tree and they are catapulted through the air by a scorching heat wave.

X

Sherlock is in a bad mood for days because he has been closest to the house and his hair got torched a tiny bit, resulting in a rather radical haircut by Mrs. Hudson. He looks like an extremely angry sheared sheep.

John, Greg and Anthea are relatively unharmed apart from bruises and scratches and Mycroft gets away with a broken wrist from where he landed on his arm with his full body weight because both Greg and Anthea shoved him forward during the explosion to get him as far away as possible.

They all have to deal with a ringing in their ears for days.

“Some American business tycoon has been arrested. He was supposed to sign something with the UK tomorrow, but they found out he was caught up in a lot of illegal business,” Greg says when he finds Mycroft at his desk in the (big) library.

“Has he?” Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow. “How... unfortunate and unexpected.”

Greg grins and leans over to kiss him. “You are the _worst_ liar.”

Mycroft very nearly snorts and leans away from the piece of paper he had been brooding about. Greg immediately recognizes it as the list.

“Are you still worrying about that thing?”

“Well, being kidnapped together with Sherlock is not exactly how I imagined the ‘spending more time with him’ part would go.” Mycroft makes a face.

“Probably not,” Greg agrees, but adds: “It was a lot more peaceful than other times you spent with him, though.”

That earns him a slight scowl, but it’s not serious. “I would like very much just to burn this dreaded thing,” Mycroft admits, sending the list a hateful look.

Burning things! The five-year-old in Greg breaks through and he gives Mycroft a lopsided grin. “Then do it. You’ll feel better!”

For a couple of seconds, Mycroft seems to weigh the pros and cons and then a small smile appears on his face, which Greg likes infinitely better now than with a scowl. “Fine. If only to please you.”

Greg pulls him up and nuzzles into his neck. “Ah, I like the sound of that.”

And so the piece of paper Mycroft has carried around since he was 16 goes up in flames that night and he doesn’t miss it one bit. He hasn’t actually stuck to any of the rules he set for himself. But now, eight years after Lestrade locked Sherlock into his car, and four years after realizing that a certain DI had managed to turn his world upside down without even trying and three years after kissing him under mistletoe, Mycroft can’t really think of any reason to see his past years as failures.

He might have been failing at his bucket list... constantly. But he has a bigger family than he had ever expected to have (and ever wanted, to be honest), and even with a broken wrist, he might just be the happiest man on the planet.

Of course Greg Lestrade would argue about that. He is infuriating like that. He is lovely like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it!  
> If you have a brother who sings you a very lovely version of "Next To Me", customised to you, then you are me and you are lucky.  
> And if you liked this, then you are you and I am lucky.  
> Thank you for reading, commenting and the kudos!  
> See you around :)  
> Hanna


End file.
